


I'd Probably Still Adore You With Your Hands Around My Neck

by Mssmithlove



Series: Happiness Awaits [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, First Years, Johnlock - Freeform, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Naughty Sherlock, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Roommates, Semi Slow Burn, Sherlock is a Mess, Teenlock, Unilock, Virgin Sherlock, mystrade, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:58:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 172,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4259067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssmithlove/pseuds/Mssmithlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock and John become roommates in their first year at University, they both end up finding things they never realized they were looking for- in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Griselda_Howl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griselda_Howl/gifts), [ishaveforsherl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishaveforsherl/gifts).



> HIIII!! The Happiness Awaits series is officially BACK!! So good to be home friends!! 
> 
> Okay so I'm doing something a bit different with this story- it's going to be a multi-chapter. It just had to be with this prompt from Griselda_Howl, it was too good to pass up! The original prompt is long so I won't post it here but I did my best to follow it!
> 
>  _I want to give a very special thanks to ishaveforsherl for brainstorming, listening and reading all the things I ask of you, you are the light in my day every day, I have no idea what I would do without you and I love love LOVE you to absolute pieces!_  

"You can't be serious."

Ignoring the blatant irritation in Mrs. Hudson's voice, Sherlock's eyes stay closed, fingers steepled beneath his chin, splayed out on the bare, yellowing mattress he is now supposed to call his bed. The color is hateful, as is the paint on the walls of the entire room. The longer he stares, the more the barriers seem to cave in, so Sherlock opts to keep his lids shut tight. Although, he'd prefer to focus on the revolting colors of his new surroundings. The panic of what is supposed to take place today is threatening to swallow him whole as it is.

The room is the least of his problems.

"Hm," he replies noncommittally, feigning indifference. On any other day, he'd be happy to assist in moving his items into his new home. He would be happy to complain and annoy and snap and sulk like he does best because moving is tedious and Sherlock doesn't do tedious. He would be sure to let Mrs. Hudson know just how much he didn't do tedious. If he were helping.

But he's not helping.

He's not even sulking like he's certain his nanny-turned-housekeeper thinks he is.

Truthfully, he's lying here desperately willing the world to come to an end. If a black hole would simply swallow the earth right this minute, that would be ideal. Or just London. More improbable, probably impossible, but one can always hope. Hope for impossible. _Beg_ for impossible.

"Sherlock Holmes, you get your behind off that bed this instant and come help me with your things," Mrs. Hudson barks from the doorway. Sherlock can practically feel the all-too-familiar glare of his longtime friend and for all intents and purposes, mother. He refuses to open his eyes, refuses to retake-in the small dorm he's supposed to call home from now on.

Actually, small isn't the right word. Small is being generous. No, this room is tiny. Itty bitty. Could be considered a torture chamber by expecting two fully-grown males to live within its quarters comfortably for an entire year.

Sherlock swallows hard around the lump of sheer panic in his throat at the sudden reminder.

Two males.

Living here.

Another boy will be arriving soon. Another boy will be showing up at any moment, bags in hand, prepared to become Sherlock Holmes new university roommate. He'll bring all of his belongings and idiotic brain and obnoxious hobbies along with him and settle right into Sherlock's personal space.

It's beyond terrifying.

In all his years on earth, Sherlock has never lived closer than ten meters from another person. He shares a home with an older brother, a housekeeper and an entire wait staff, but none of them _lived in his room._

He inwardly cringes, his body going rigid with the reminder, stomach squirming unpleasantly. This may be the worst thing to ever happen to him. Attending university had been a bad plan to begin with. The intelligent side of his brain told him it was necessary. The other side, the side ruled by emotions that Sherlock had thus far in life been successful at ignoring, had warned him it wouldn't go well. Warned him he would regret it. Warned him that all people were the same dull, boring, obnoxious specimens that he so loathed to interact with. Secondary school had been a nightmare. Why would uni be any different?

Cursing his decision to the high heavens, Sherlock cracks an eye open as Mrs. Hudson huffs and storms off down the corridor, back to the car where the remainder of Sherlock's belongings are still waiting to be moved indoors. He takes the moment alone to compose himself, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, crushing his fingertips together in a woeful attempt to calm down.

He needs to get a handle on himself.

He needs to get a handle on the situation.

He rolls to the side and eyes the bed sitting only two meters at most across the room from his own. He clenches his jaw, ignoring the telling roll of anxiety coursing through his insides at who could possibly be the boy to occupy that bed for the remainder of the school year.

It will be someone unbearable, of that Sherlock is certain. He'll be stupid at the best of times and uninteresting and love things like football and rugby and majoring in something simple and tedious like sociology or communications. He'll be cocky, because aren't all eighteen-year-old boys believing themselves to be God's gift to earth? He'll be obnoxious about how incredible he finds himself, and how everyone thinks so.

But above all else, he'll be a prick. He'll be a quick-tempered, fist-clenching, snarling bastard with no tolerance for any truths, any facts Sherlock is bound to deduce about him.

It's what Sherlock does, to the dismay of almost all that cross his path. He sees things about people, notices the smallest of scratches or twitches or loose strings that tell a much bigger story. The Science of Deduction he so proudly calls it. It is a science, after all. And Sherlock is a scientist.

He has yet to meet someone who finds what he can do as fascinating and interesting as he does. Quite the opposite, in fact. A variation of piss off has been thrown out on multiple occasions when Sherlock rattles off what tells a person has from a cursory glance.

Well, the nicer ones say piss off. The other ones? Especially the boys his age? Well, they are all the same anyway and their reactions come as close to identical as can be. A fist to the face is a group favorite. A good tongue-lashing suffices for others. A personal tear down of Sherlock's looks, brain and social life or lack there of is also always on hand as well.

Case in point, eighteen-year-old blokes have never been friends to Sherlock. They've been mean and dumb and utterly cruel, and Sherlock is under no illusions that he won't be lucky enough to have a nice roommate. A good roommate. A roommate who will leave him alone and stay out of his way.

He's never been lucky in his life. The chances of him getting lucky now are unrealistic. Unlikely. Simply impossible. And he knows it.

The empty bed across from his glares back at him, taunting him with the unknown. Asking him to think in circles, to drive himself up the wall with questions and possibilities and-

"Scowling at the bed isn't going to help you, dear," Mrs. Hudson grumbles as she makes her way back into the room, a small box in hand and a bag slung over her shoulder. Sherlock glowers at his housekeeper who he still refuses to see as the mother figure she's become in the years following his parent's death. He hops off the bed, crossing his arms and pointedly turning his back to the offending mattress. "I wasn't scowling."

"Yes you were. I don't know what you're so worried about. He might be cute, you know."

It takes a fifth of a second for that to sink in.

And then the blood fills Sherlock's cheeks rapidly, heating his face immediately at the implications of those words. "Mrs. Hudson!" he cries indignantly, mortified that she would even think… that she might  _know_ -

"Would you calm down?" She laughs, tucking his shirts into the drawers beside his bed, neatly folded the way she's done his entire life. "It's alright if you like-"

"Mrs. Hudson-"

"I'm just saying dear, boys can like other boys, you know Mrs. Turner's got married ones and I think-"

"MRS. HUDSON!" Sherlock hollers, drowning out her final words, face flaming hotter than the sun, brow scowling with fury mixed with complete humiliation.

He should be used to this by now, this intrusive little chat she seems so hell bent on having constantly. This has become their new norm.

Ever since the woman had come across some telling magazines Sherlock kept under his bed, she'd taken every opportunity to let him know how supportive she was in the most embarrassing and humiliating ways he could possibly manage. It wasn't quite as helpful as she seemed to think it was. It's mortifying. Completely and utterly humiliating.

Besides, it isn't like anything has... happened. It isn't like Sherlock has conducted some grand experiment to come to this conclusion. It just sort of... is. He just is. It didn't much affect him either way, finding both genders and people in general rather uninteresting and idiotic and a complete waste of time. But the idea of touching a boy isn't wholly unappealing. It isn't the  _worst_  thing he's ever imagined.

But Sherlock has yet to meet a boy he'd like to lay hands on. Or more importantly one that he'd allow to lay hands on him.

"You should be more comfortable with yourself, dear," Mrs. Hudson continues as though Sherlock's face isn't currently melting off. "It's alright to be g-"

A harsh throat clear cuts off the final word and Sherlock freezes where he stands, the unpleasant shiver of dread racing up his spine.

"Um… hello?" An unsure male voice accompanied by a soft knock comes from the doorway and Sherlock's blood runs cold.

Of  _course_  his new roommate would show up at this exact moment.

It's Sherlock, after all. Lucky is not in the cards for him.  _Un_ lucky is.

He curses himself and this newcomer for showing up at random and giving Sherlock no time to be in position. To be facing the door at least. Now he's got the upper hand and Sherlock is caught on his heels.

He can't bring himself to turn around.

Mrs. Hudson, for her part, doesn't seem the least bit concerned about the new boy overhearing their squabbling as she looks up and smiles, eyes widening ever so slightly.

Sherlock knows that look. He narrows his in warning but she's no longer concerning herself with Sherlock's sexuality as she steps around him already beaming. Sherlock still doesn't turn, instead pretending to busy himself with refolding his shirts. He'd like to delay the inevitable meeting of the roommate for as long as humanly possible.

He's going to hate him.

He's certain of it.

It makes something slither sickly in his stomach.

"Why, hello there!" Mrs. Hudson's flowery words fill the room as she hurries over to the new arrival. "You must be Sherlock's new flatmate!"

"We are not in a flat," Sherlock bites out without his brain warning him. "We are in a small rat hole  _at best_."

The snort that follows the comment has Sherlock faltering, turning his head just slightly toward the sound. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have laughed at that comment. Which is further proven when she gasps.

" _Sherlock_ ," she admonishes as though that's the worst thing she's ever heard him say which, by all means, it is  _not_.

He tries not to smirk and fails. Sweet, clever Mrs. Hudson. Attempting to make the new bloke believe Sherlock is anything other than the obnoxious genius that he is.

"To be fair, he's right," the unfamiliar voice says with a small chuckle. "This place is definitely not a flat."

A cool wave of unsolicited hope rolls its way through Sherlock's body, tugging the corners of his lips upward and smoothing out the scowl along the creases of his face. It gives Sherlock pause.

This boy... this new, unknown boy just  _agreed_  with him.

With Sherlock.

He frowns down at the shirt in his hand.

It's... confusing. Unprecedented. Bloody wonderful.

Which promptly rights Sherlock's almost-euphoric mind back into its usual foul mood as he realizes how stupid he's being. He rolls his eyes internally and sets about pulling on his armor, nasty words on the tip of his tongue to put this bloke in his rightful place. Sherlock has no time for niceties. No time for games. No time for hope.

And with that last thought, he turns, venom playing around the edges of his mouth, prepped and ready to spit, because Sherlock has never met another person his age he actually likes. He's hardly tolerant and the last thing he needs is to believe there is someone tolerable out there. Let alone that lives with him. People are nothing but a letdown. Besides, Sherlock prefers to be alone. Alone is what he has.

Alone protects him.

Brow arched in condescension, body stiff and ready for battle, Sherlock is wholly prepared as he squares his shoulders and whirls around.

And finds how wholly  _un_ prepared he truly is.

The regret of turning around and laying eyes on what he is currently laying eyes on is immediate and breathtaking.

The boy in the doorway is  _breathtaking_.

Round cobalt eyes shimmer back at him, profoundly deep and all-consuming, sitting just below dirty blonde fringe that falls across the boy's forehead just so, the edges winging out just enough, giving off the impression of clean cut with a dash of disorder and a hint of chaos. The blond is short but not in an unfortunate way. In a nice, compact, sturdy way. In a way that is  _doing it_  for Sherlock. Those pretty eyes are crinkled around one side of the boy's round, cherub-like face, the corner of his mouth upturned into what Sherlock assumes is a good-natured smirk. Sherlock can't tell. He has zero experience with anything like this. Like someone actually being nice to him. He catches the tail end of a darkened gaze trailing up his frame and suddenly he feels hot all over.

Very hot.

 _Boiling_  hot.

Oh no.

No, this is  _worse_  than having an idiot for a roommate.

This is...

Sherlock's mouth is promptly filling with saliva and he can't bring himself to speak without the very real threat of drool escaping his lips. He bites at the insides of his cheeks, pleading with his libido to  _get it together_.

This can't be happening.

So many years,  _years_ of careful research, careful  _control_ comes crashing down around him and Sherlock is panicking. He can't... he's never been attracted to someone. He  _can't_  be attracted to someone. He's tried, really he has, buying ridiculous magazines and searching high and low all over the interweb. He's done his best. And his body decides to react now? To someone he's about to be  _living with_?

No.

Absolutely not.

He will not be attracted to his bloody roommate.

Mrs. Hudson clears her throat pointedly and Sherlock's forehead breaks out in an embarrassed sweat.

And just like that, he's making a decision.

Right this minute, absolutely not. This is not on. This  _can't_ be on.

Back up. Get away. Throw up those barriers and forget this ever happened.

Cold.

Unattached.

It's what he does best.

He cannot be nice to this beautiful boy. He  _can't_. That would only be asking for trouble. That would be going down a very dangerous path. That would be stupid and sentimental. Two things Sherlock is very much not.

He ignores the way his housekeeper's face falls as he slips his cool mask back on and arches a condescending eyebrow, eyes racing down the boy's fit frame to gain any and all ammo he possible can before pulling the trigger. "Hm," he replies, "I suppose you would know what a flat doesn't look like, seeing as you've recently moved from a house that's falling apart at the seams."

His roommate's smirk drops right off his face, his jaw following it down. "What?"

The disappointment is immediate and almost painful. He misses the sexy smug lip-quirk already. It was far more attractive and nicer than this gaping fish look the boy is now sporting.

Nothing for it now.

Sherlock sniffs arrogantly, glancing away from those mesmerizing eyes and looks around the room as though in deep consideration. He needs to get out of here. Right now. "Well, I believe all of my belongings are moved in," he says coolly, "so if you don't mind, I'll be heading out to the library."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson tries again to scold but Sherlock is already grabbing his phone off the desk and hurrying past. "You are being very rude, young man."

He doesn't respond. He can't respond.

He can't  _breathe_.

Not while this boy... this blond, sweet-faced boy... whose name Sherlock doesn't even know, is looking at him.

For godsake. He's lusting after a boy he doesn't even know the name of.

Pathetic.

He slips by the two staring in shock and out into the main hallway, taking a deep, calming breath as he hurries away from the space he's supposed to call home.

He can't live with this person. He can't be anywhere  _near_  this person. It's impossible. It's unbearable.

He needs his sanctuary. He needs to get to the library and away. Away from the face that has, for the first time in his life, put sex on Sherlock Holmes' brain. The face that is probably sitting just in front of a head full of air. A probably stupid brute with a crew of big, mean friends and a vicious temper. Sherlock has known plenty of those before, he's certain he will know plenty in the future and though he's never been attracted to a single one of them, it changes nothing. Dickheads can be gorgeous; it doesn't make them any less of a dickhead.

"Uh- it's John by the way," a now familiar voice calls after him. "John Watson."

Simple name.

Simple and so fitting and utterly beautiful just like the boy himself.

And Sherlock wants to tear his hair out in sheer frustration. "Irrelevant!" he hollers back without turning. He can't look at that blond head again. Not now. Not ever, if he can help it.

"My name is irrelevant," he can hear John mutter to himself in almost comical sarcastic disbelief, the headshake so obvious Sherlock swears he can feel it. "Good to know."

Sherlock has no response, bursting through the door to the outside world and inhaling as deeply as possible, hoping desperately to clear all his thoughts. One thought in particular that seems to be plastered to a billboard across his brain, flashing bright, blinking and buzzing, demanding to be seen. One thought. Two words.

_John Watson._

_John Watson._

_John Watson._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank ishaveforsherl for all the help with this chapter!! I couldn't have done it without you, you wonderful, beautiful babe!

John Watson has been making plans for university since the beginning of the summer. He's been plotting and planning and practically vibrating with excitement at what lies ahead for him in the heart of London, ready to start his career as a doctor, ready to be in a new place, meeting new friends, playing for a new rugby team. John Watson has been ready to start a whole new life.

So finding out that his roommate is not only very much  _not_ the fun-loving bloke John had hoped he would be, but a rather unusual and seemingly elusive boy has really thrown a wrench in John's big plans as a uni student.

In fact, this unusual and rather elusive roommate he now has had already mucked up his plans good and proper within the first hour of being on campus.

In hindsight, John shouldn't have assumed he'd be living with some sort of fantastic bloke he'd immediately hit it off with. He shouldn't have expected the best friend he'd been hoping for, shouldn't have already had several topics in mind to discuss as a bonding ritual. Really, John should have prepared for more than just a really decent guy ready and willing to be John's mate.

It's been one full week and still, John has no idea what to make of the rather clandestine Sherlock Holmes. The fact that the only reason John even knows the boy's name is due to a nice woman who had been helping him move in on their first day of school and given John right around nothing to work with besides a name and an uncomfortable wink.

"He takes some getting used to, dear," Mrs. Hudson had warned after introducing herself as a 'friend of the Holmes family'. "He does things at his own will but give him some time. If you need anything, feel free to call either of these numbers." She'd handed him a card with the information, patted his cheek, and left.

Her words had done nothing to calm John's somewhat anxious nerves, unsure what exactly he was dealing with.

Something he still currently doesn't know. Because Sherlock Holmes hardly spends a moment in their room. He wakes far earlier than John does and disappears for the entire day, returning long after John has gone to sleep. John has even tried to make it back to their room at random, attempting to catch a glimpse of the boy, make sure he's still actually alive and well. He has yet to lay eyes on him. The only reason he even knows Sherlock does come back during the night is the rumpled sheets and indent of the pillow of the boy's bed. Otherwise, there is hardly any sign of him. It's a bit creepy, a bit unnerving.

And a bit fascinating.

Which is stupid. John shouldn't be  _fascinated_  with his roommate's lifestyle. If anything, he should be concerned. What does Sherlock Holmes do every day? Where does he go? Class can only take up so many hours. What could he possibly be doing? Does he have a job? Does he study? Does he have friends?

John wishes he knew. He wishes he knew exactly what it is he is dealing with. He wishes he could understand why Sherlock seems to be blatantly avoiding him.

And it's so unbelievably stupid that that fact alone hurts John more than it should. Sherlock has no loyalties to John. They've met a total of one time. John can hardly even remember what the boy looks like, let alone what may have happened to set them on this weird avoidance path.

Well.

That might not be totally true.

John can remember quite well what Sherlock looks like, actually.

It would be difficult to forget.

Sherlock Holmes was a pretty boy if there was ever a time to use that term. He'd had sharp, serious features that lay delicately across pale, porcelain-like skin, his cheekbones and jawline sharp and prominent. He'd had these dark tumbling curls that fell down around the crown of his head and framed his face in a rather sultry-without-really-trying sort of way, wild and chaotic while simultaneously seeming soft and silky.

But the thing that had caught John off-guard, and out of breath, were his roommate's eyes. Light, possibly green irises had stared back at John that first day, widening ever so slightly before narrowing in scrutiny, trailing up and down his form without preamble. John could have sworn the color changed twice, shifting as his gaze took in everything there was to know about John Watson and making absolutely no apology for it. It had been rather exposing. And had been a bit overwhelming, if John were being honest. Mostly because he himself had been ogling the boy no subtler, barely keeping the saliva pooling in his mouth from dripping over his lips in what would have been an incredibly unattractive drool.

It's not new for him at least, the being attracted to boys thing. A small comfort in the wake of what is going on. A few confusing drunken encounters and a rather serious conversation with himself had brought John to the obvious conclusion that he's bisexual a year before. It hadn't been all that surprising, or upsetting.

He'd just very much prefer not to be attracted to the bloke he's supposed to be sleeping a few short meters from for the remainder of the year. The bloke who is clearly a prat if there ever was one. A bloke who, while undeniably gorgeous, also has zero interest in being friends let alone much else.

_Much else._

Jesus, he has to stop thinking like that. He has got to stop thinking about his roommate as anything other than the arsehole who wants nothing to do with John. He has got to stop thinking about cheekbones and jawlines and unruly curls and ever-changing eyes. He has to  _stop_. Because in the end, all he and Sherlock currently have is one single, awkward conversation and Sherlock seems quite content on keeping that as their only interaction at all.

John shakes his head rather violently, attempting to clear his thoughts as he glances around his empty dorm room. It's completely ridiculous to be this obsessed over the behavior of someone he hardly knows. He needs to snap out of it.

Thank god for rugby.

Pulling on his practice shorts and t-shirt, John slings his bag over his shoulder and heads out to his first official practice with his new team. He's never been more thrilled to go run sprints than he is right now, a distraction more than welcome after the week he's had. He needs to take his mind off of his mysterious roommate. He needs human contact. He needs to stop thinking constantly about Sherlock bloody Holmes.

"John!" An overly welcomed voice hollers after him just as John steps outside his residence hall and he can't help turning and smiling at the happy chirp of his name.

Greg Lestrade jogs toward him, grin plastered wide across his face, sporting similar attire to John's practice clothes, matching bag wrapped around his torso. John has never been happier to see the captain of his new team. The one who essentially recruited him onto the team, having scouted out his secondary school and approached John himself. The one who had taken John under his wing during summer practices and made him feel welcome. The one who is all but grooming John to become his co-captain. The one who basically got John his current position on the team.

In truth, it's been a lonely week. No new roommate bonding, no new friends in the chaos of the first week of school. Seeing Greg is like a taking a deep breath of fresh air and John can already feel the stress easing out of his muscles.

"You know, I'm the new kid on campus," John starts in teasingly as Greg hustles to catch up, "I hardly know a soul and yet the one person I  _do_ know makes absolutely no time for me? Some friend I got."

The snort Greg replies with is hindered a bit by the blush staining his cheeks. "Oh, I- yeah sorry about that it's been kind of a busy few days."

John raises a teasing eyebrow, already well-in on the joke that Greg is a bit more…  _friendly_  than the rest of the team. It's a running gag the players have that Greg has not only hit on every single one of them, but their significant others, sisters, brothers, friends, the whole lot while under the influence of alcohol. John had witnessed it firsthand over the summer though no one ever gives in and Greg never pushes it. Plus, Greg is surprisingly amiable to the teasing and is rather open and honest about his overly affectionate drunken self. "'Busy' huh?"

Greg gives him a shoulder-shove. "Shut up. Where were those other wankers we call teammates? Haven't seen 'em on campus?"

John shrugs. Truthfully, he hasn't gone in search of anyone he knows the entire week. He's been far too wrapped up in sexy, obscure roommates and empty dorm rooms.

He shakes that thought right out of his mind, scolding himself internally for referring to Sherlock as sexy, and offers a shrug. "No, I haven't seen much of anyone, actually."

"First week is always the craziest," Greg offers. "How's it going, anyway? Your first week?"

Faltering slightly, John attempts a shrug, decidedly not explaining his newfound infatuation with a boy he hardly knows. "It's um… definitely different. Classes are going to be tough and the campus is a bit confusing."

He ignores the dubious look Greg gives him. "Everything alright, mate?"

"Mm," John tries to reply, pointedly ignoring Greg's side-eye. "Just a bit strange, you know. New place, new living space. No big deal."

Greg laughs. "Well, at least this part is easy, yeah? You know how to do this in your sleep." He nods toward the field up ahead and John can't help but grin, the well-known rush of adrenaline pumping hotly through his system.

The dark green pitch seems to glow surrounded by grey buildings and the familiarity of it rights something in John that has been twisting uncomfortably for days. He picks up his pace a bit, barreling toward the field with his friend in tow and his limbs start to feel loose. He hadn't realized how much tension he's been holding since he arrived on campus and met Sherlock Holmes.

"Okay so classes and campus have been rough, I'm sorry about that. What about your roommate? Good bloke?" Greg asks so casually, clearly having no idea that John's roommate has been slowly driving him mad for seven days.

"Um," John's throat is suddenly very dry. How on earth does he explain Sherlock or the reaction he's stirred quite spectacularly in John? "I don't uh… he's alright."

He silently curses himself for how bloody stupid that sounded. And how telling.

Greg frowns. "What does that mean?"

With a heavy sigh, John replays the story of the day he met Sherlock, running an uncomfortable hand through his hair as he tries not to sound quite as enthralled with the odd boy as he is from a single bloody conversation. A conversation, John adds in his own head, that ended with Sherlock making a rather rude – and unfortunately true – statement about John's home, and then bolting from the room like someone too important to explain how the bloody hell he knew that.

Greg, for his part, is smirking. "Well, he sounds lovely."

"I really wouldn't know," John grumbles, "I haven't seen him in a week."

"Seriously?" Greg sounds surprised but not worried sick like John has been. It makes a small bubble of anger pop within his stomach. "What, did he move out or something?"

Biting down on a heavy, exhausted sigh, John shrugs. "Not that I know of." He shouldn't be frustrated with Greg. The guy has no idea that John has been slowly going insane for an entire week, curiosity and frustration and concern all warring for dominance within him from all the possibilities as to why his roommate has not returned to their room during waking hours.

God, but why does he even  _care_? He essentially lives alone at age eighteen. Isn't that a good thing? Isn't that every teenage boy's dream? He has no one to answer to. No one to worry about. After living in what could only be described as a shack for his entire youth with a bitter mother and a borderline alcoholic of a sister, John should be thankful for the silence. Thankful for the peace and quiet. He has no responsibilities now but himself. He doesn't have to look after his family or the electricity bill or if his mother made it into work that day or not. He just has his schoolwork and his rugby team and himself. He doesn't need to be worrying about or looking after anyone. It's not his job. It's not his responsibility.

The fact that he even wants to be in charge of someone like that is baffling. He doesn't even know this gorgeous, ever-disappearing boy. He knows nothing about him.

"Maybe he fell in love with you at first sight and can't handle looking at you now," Greg teases, elbowing his ribs. "John Watson, the irresistible rugby player."

Throwing his head back and giving a hardy laugh at how truly preposterous that possibility is, John can feel the remaining tension in his shoulders ebb away. He's glad to have something to focus on besides his bizarre living situation. "Yeah, right," John laughs. "I'm sure that's exactly what happened."

Grinning happily, Greg slings an arm around John's shoulders. "You never know!" He crows. "All that bisexual frustration is coming off you in  _waves_ , my friend."

Wriggling out of his grasp, John tosses a playful punch into his friend's ribs. "Yeah, I told you that in confidence, thanks," he attempts to scold, though his lips twitch up in a good-natured grin.

"Nothing is in confidence whilst under the influence of whiskey," Greg wags a finger at him. "Remember that, Johnny."

Still laughing, John tosses his bag onto the bench where the rest of the team is pulling on their boots. "Well then, shall I tell the rest of the team how you made a rather serious effort to drunkenly snog me later that night?"

"Yeah, you were cuter when I was drunk," Greg teases.

"He did the same thing to me," Mike Stamford hollers from across the bench.

"And me!" Paul Dimmock agrees.

"Me too!"

"Yup, he did that to me, too."

"It's his way of initiation," Mike grins knowingly and the rest of the boys dissolve into giggles, John unable to stop himself from chuckling.

Greg glares out into the sea of red practice jerseys, though his lips are trembling with the effort not to smile. "You're quite the slag, Captain," John cackles watching as Greg rolls his eyes and attempts not to let the laughter bubble over his lips.

"And you all seem to forget I'm in charge of conditioning," Greg threatens to the group of giggling boys. "How does ten laps around the pitch sound?"

"Aw, come on Cap!" Paul argues. "It's not like you got your lips on any one of us!"

"That's true," Mike agrees with a sly smile, "you haven't succeeded in snogging a single one of us."

"And I won't try again," Greg replies, standing taller and puffing his chest out a bit. "Your captain is officially off the market, boys."

The laughter only gets louder, accompanied by whoops and hollers of excitement as Greg takes a bow. "Good on you, mate," John calls, "Who's the lucky one, then?"

Even from a few meters away, John can see Greg's features soften. "His name is Mycroft," Greg replies, clearly very proud of newfound significant other. "And he's interning for the British government at the moment so you lot better keep yourselves in check. He's got pull in this city."

Mike slaps him on the back and cheers, Greg blushing slightly as the team gathers around to give him hell. "Yeah, yeah alright, get your arses out on the field. We've got to actually practice today."

Shaking his head at how at home he feels, John lines up alongside his captain, grinning at how much better he's felt in the last twenty minutes than he has in seven days. "Mycroft, huh?" he murmurs as Greg fights back a grin. Jesus, his friend has it bad for this guy. "Rather posh name for someone willingly dating the likes of you."

Greg snorts. "You know what's worse? He's got a brother named Sherlock. Pretentious as all hell, his family."

The good-natured, genuine grin John has been sporting slips from his face immediately, something squirming low in his belly. "What?"

Pausing on an order he was just about to call out, Greg tosses John a confused glance. "Uh- Myc's got a younger brother."

Oh no.

It can't be.

"What's his name?" John all but growls.

"Uh-…Sherlock," Greg replies, frowning at John's darkening gaze.

Swallowing down on panic, John barely gets his question out. "What's their last name? Mycroft and Sherlock What?"

"Uh- Holmes," Greg replies with a furrowed brow. "Why? You know him?"

This cannot be happening.

The one place he'd been sure he was safe from thoughts of Sherlock Holmes.

Not even close.

"Yeah," John grumbles, having no idea why this makes him feel unbelievably uneasy. "He's my fucking roommate."

Yet again freezing with his mouth open on an order, Greg halts, eyes widening as he turns back to John.

He stares.

And stares.

And right when John is about to inquire as to why exactly he's the one staring in shock, Greg throws his head back and barks out a loud, unapologetic laugh, shoulders shaking. He throws his weight forward and plants his hands on his knees, body racked with hysterical giggles like John has just told the most hilarious joke he's ever heard. Half the team has stopped their chatter and now eye their captain in confusion.

"What is so funny?" John demands in a hushed tone, although it's completely useless. Everyone around him is already listening.

"Oh Jesus, John," Greg cackles, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "Oh my god, I am so sorry. Truly, I am so so sorry."

He doesn't sound the least bit sorry. "Greg, would you just tell me?" John bites back, cheeks heating with embarrassment and confusion.

Sobering just slightly, Greg grins. "I don't want to spoil the surprise but... oh mate, you've got a mad man for a roommate."

John's insides flip unpleasantly. "What does that mean?"

Tossing one last knowing, humorous smile, Greg shakes his head. "Ah... he's a bit… well, you'll just have to wait and see, now won't you? Come on guys, let's warm up!"

The remainder of his teammates rush past him to catch up to Greg's jogging form.

John doesn't go with them.

John can't move.

John can hardly  _breathe_.

It takes him a solid minute to have the wherewithal to follow, head spinning with what the hell just happened and what exactly it means for his situation.

And if John were paying attention to anything other than his own bloody thoughts, he would have seen the dark curly head peeking out from around one of the buildings, watching his every move with sharp, knowing eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! 
> 
> We've got a constant lovefest going on on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Feel free to drop by and join in!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS CHAPTER TOOK A WHILE! Life got in the way, a bit. I guess that whole getting this done in a month was totally off, yeah? SORRY! I'll try to be better about updates!
> 
> *Special thanks as always to my wonderful ishaveforsherl, you are INCREDIBLE, thank you for taking the time to proof read and brainstorm and be my soulmate, I love you so very much!*

"I am going to deliberately and methodically murder you in your sleep, you intolerable, meddling, sadistic, arrogant, _infuriating_ -"

"Are you just going down the list of words you've been called yourself or is this particular list one you came up with all on your own, dear brother?"

Sherlock is glaring to the side of his head and downward to where his mobile is currently attached to his ear, his unbearable elder brother's voice, though soft and smooth, sounds more like nails on a chalkboard coming through the tiny speaker. He's barreling – not  _stomping_  as Mycroft Holmes has already condescendingly accused – through campus, darting through bodies as he spits venomously down the line of the mobile clutched in his grasp. He's going to kill Mycroft. He is going to wrap his long fingers around his brother's fat neck and ring his irritating, imposing, overbearing little-

"Plotting murder against your kin is rather dull and predictable, wouldn't you say? A jealous young man throttling his much esteemed older sibling in cold-"

"I am not  _jealous_ ," Sherlock rails, earning a few disparaging glances from surrounding students, their steps stuttering away from the crazed boy on the phone. "You placed a  _spy_  in my university dorm room, you completely  _insufferable_  bast-"

"Oh,  _please_  stop it with the dramatics, Sherlock, it's so very unbecoming," Mycroft sighs heavily. "I didn't do anything of the sort."

"Don't  _lie_ ," Sherlock barks, glaring at the cement disappearing beneath his feet, feeling the heat of fury burning the back of his neck at how absolutely petulant he sounds. This is what Mycroft and his large, meddling arse does to Sherlock. He forces him to act irrational. "It's  _very unbecoming_." He flicks a hand through the air, rolling his words into the poshest accent he can manage, mimicking his infuriating older brother.

Sherlock has spent an entire week convincing himself everything he thought he'd felt for John Watson the first time he'd laid eyes on him was complete and utter crap. It was just a reaction. Just the chemistry of the body reacting to a handsome face. That was all it was. Nothing to be alarmed about. Sherlock was being ridiculous. Absurd. And a week out of direct contact was helping. No interaction was the best thing. He didn't have to stand a bright, megawatt smile or golden blond shaggy hair glistening in the sunlight or low, sexy chuckles sneaking their way out of pretty, soft lips.

He'd done an exceptional job of convincing himself that John Watson was unremarkable. A nobody. A nice-looking bloke with not a single other redeeming quality.

That hadn't stopped Sherlock from gathering data all week, though.

He  _needs_  data.

To conquer this... whatever this is, he needed the data to determine exactly why he'd reacted that way and how to overcome it. He needs to know exactly what it is he's dealing with.

So he's been watching.

Watching John walk to class.

Watching John play rugby.

Watching John sleep.

It's borderline stalking behavior, although most sightings could be explained away by the fact that not only do they attend the same university, but they also live together. Sherlock has no shame and besides, this is _important_. No one is paying attention to his whereabouts anyway. Well, besides the one breathing heavily down the other line of the mobile at the current moment.

"Sherlock, I realize the coincidence of my significant other's teammate becoming your roommate is difficult for you to comprehend, but the truth of the matter is that is fact. I like to think of it as a happy accident." Mycroft sounds smug as all hell and Sherlock  _hates_  it when Mycroft is smug.

"A coincidence," Sherlock replies dubiously. "You expect me to believe that? You, of all people, do not believe in coincidences. Why would you try to convince me otherwise when on numerous occasions you've stated your dissatisfaction in the belief of fortuitous events?"

The sigh that whooshes down the line brings Sherlock's blood to a vicious boil. "I realize you are having some sort of existential crisis over this," Mycroft replies tiredly, "but I actually have work to do. I don't have time for this."

Sherlock scoffs. Quite literally  _scoffs_.

Mycroft has little time for things other than intruding in every aspect of Sherlock's life.

"When are you going to sort out the fact that I do not need your protection and stop sticking your minions on me?" Sherlock bites back, ignoring Mycroft's previous statement. His older brother loves to pretend to be drowning in work, when really Sherlock is almost positive he hangs up the phone only to direct his attention to the CCTV camera feed he has trained on Sherlock at all times.

"Gregory is nowhere near the minion you're so fond of describing him as, so please do settle down," Mycroft replies just shy of snapping. Lestrade is a touchy subject for his brother and Sherlock knows it. Sentiment. Idiotic. "And I believe John isn't even aware of our connection at present. Though he may be shortly seeing as he spends an awful lot of time with Gregory."

"You did this," Sherlock spits undeterred, furious strides anew as he takes off toward the room he avoids at all costs. It's Wednesday. John is in class all day on Wednesday. Sherlock can have one sodding moment to himself in the confines of their shared four walls to plan out his brother's brutal murder.

The infuriating thing is that he actually believes Mycroft. He believes it was probably just a coincidence seeing as Mycroft loves to shove his beautifully laid plans right in Sherlock's face. He hardly ever denies anything. But Sherlock can't stop his fury now. "You concocted this situation, had Lestrade's little  _friend_  become my roommate so you could watch my every move, be sure I didn't do anything to dirty up the precious  _Holmes_  name and-"

"Take the dramatics down a notch, brother mine," Mycroft's response has nowhere near the fear it should have from Sherlock's tone. "It's not all as sinister as you believe it to be."

"I'm not a  _child_ , Mycroft," Sherlock breathes fire down the line, furiously throwing open the door of the building he's supposed to call home. "You had... you _have_  absolutely  _no right-_ "

"Sherlock," Mycroft cuts him off gently, "I didn't plant John Watson in your room. Not that I'm not thrilled about having some sort of connection seeing as… You must understand my position with you at university. I need to know you're...alright."

"I'm _fine_ ," Sherlock barks, buying absolutely none of the 'just looking out for baby brother' bullshit Holmes the elder is so fond of. "You're just a nosey prick of a brother is all it is and you have no  _right_!"

The last word comes out choked and breathless and stupidly desperate because doesn't Mycroft  _understand_? Doesn't he understand what John Watson has done to Sherlock's  _life_? To his _well-being_? Doesn't he see that John Watson isn't so much a watchdog but a bloody  _health hazard_  in Sherlock's perfectly chaotic world? A complete distraction from things Sherlock needs to be focused on? A stunning, fit, attractive boy that  _lives in Sherlock's room_?

Of course not.  _Of course_  Mycroft doesn't understand. Mycroft never understands  _anything_.

"Sherlock," Mycroft replies softly, the voice he uses when concerned. Sherlock hates that voice. "You haven't been... you've been in the library and the labs all week, correct?"

Sherlock startles slightly at the question as he throws open the door to his dorm room. "What?"

"I know you've been keeping out of your room at all costs but you haven't... I mean that's all you've done, right? Just the library and the labs?"

Realization crashes into Sherlock like a ton of bricks and the eye roll is immediate. "Oh for the love of -  _yes_ , I've just been in the library and the labs! Where do you get the nerve asking me stupid things like that?"

He can tell by the way the line crackles that Mycroft is covering the speaker of the phone to let out a relieved breath. Sherlock grits his teeth, grinding his molars into each other. "Good," Mycroft replies coolly. "That's... that's good."

"Good _bye_ , Mycroft," Sherlock all but growls, tearing the phone from his ear and stabbing a finger to the End Call button, kicking the door shut behind him with a sharp thrust of his heel and throwing his phone down into his comforter as hard as he can, finding no satisfaction in the soft  _thunk_  of a cushioned landing.

 _Stupid_.

Stupid, sodding brothers who stick their noses in everything and act so superior when really they aren't anywhere  _near_  the caliber they claim to be and-

"So, the library and the labs, huh?"

Sherlock whirls around so quickly, he barely manages not to topple over backwards, fear creeping up his spine from the surprise of a voice in a supposedly empty space. He'd been so wrapped up in threatening Mycroft, he hadn't notice another body in the room. A body that shouldn't be there. A body Sherlock couldn't possibly look at without melting right into the floor.

And within a span of a single heartbeat, Sherlock is staring down into unnaturally deep blue eyes and rugged blonde fringe and a knowing smirk that lay across tanned features above a fit body sitting comfortably at his desk and the work Sherlock had done all week to clamp down on his rapidly out-of-hand attraction suddenly crumbles into nothing and he can't  _breathe_.

He has a frantic urge to yank at the collar of his shirt, desperate to clear his airway as much as humanly possible.

His next overwhelming urge is to spin on his heel and run.

Or jump out the window.

Whichever gets him out of here faster.

He hasn't spoken to or interacted with John in a full week. It's been unbearable, creeping back into his room at late hours of the night, seeing that blond head tucked under the covers, the blanket rising and falling with each of his sleeping breaths.

Of course John Watson is stunning when he sleeps. John Watson is stunning when he does anything at all.

At least when he's asleep, he's slightly easier for Sherlock to handle.

When John sleeps, Sherlock doesn't have to look into his unfathomable eyes. He doesn't have to worry about a sudden, breathtaking smile or sexy smirk like the one John is sporting now. When John is sleeping, Sherlock isn't caught off-balance by a sudden interaction. He can observe freely. He can scan and deduce and find out everything about John. Which he has done with aplomb, he might add.

The first thing Sherlock deduced about John's sleeping form that first night he'd crept back into the room was that his new dormmate was clearly an athlete. John had been laid out on his stomach, shirtless, arms up over his head, hands tucked beneath his cheek, the position causing the covers to fall just above John's waistline. Defined, tanned, rippling muscles had stared back at Sherlock, trailing along John's back in deep ridges, begging to be traced by a lover's delicate finger-

So, athlete.

The clothes laid neatly over the chair and the red gym bag sitting under John's bed reading Watson #3 on top of a rugby ball had given away which sport it actually was that his roommate played.

The next few things Sherlock sorted out were John's miserable home life, the tiny house he'd lived in with a single parent and a sibling he didn't get on with, gender of that sibling still difficult to sort out. By the tidiness of his side of the room, Sherlock would guess the absentee parent in John's life was his father, unless his father were the more maternal one, though Sherlock would assume not. By the looks of John's belongings, cleanliness and smiles at every passing stranger, Sherlock deduced John grew up in a house run by a mother.

Right.

The thing that Sherlock found while stalking a waking John Watson.

John smiles at everyone.  _Everyone_. Not just pretty girls or friendly blokes, though many of them linger, flashing their own bright smiles and trailing hungry eyes down John's muscled form, but  _every single_   _person_  that walks by him. And it's not a stupid, unpleasant, gullible smile either. It's more like someone with all the confidence in the world. More like someone willing and open to any and all people, while simultaneously protecting himself, guarding his true character. To the untrained eye, John Watson is a good boy, a star athlete, a mate of all the guys, a date of all the girls. To the trained, astute observer, John is putting on a show. He's friendly but not open. Kind but not trusting. Caring but not forthcoming.

 _Fascinating_.

And Sherlock _hates_  that he's fascinated.

It's his own fault, really. Sherlock shouldn't be watching John on campus. Sherlock shouldn't be watching John play rugby. Sherlock shouldn't even know that his older brother's boyfriend is best friends with his roommate. He shouldn't have in-depth knowledge of what John Watson looks like while he sleeps. Sherlock shouldn't know that John Watson, by all accounts, is perfect.

What Sherlock does know is that, by all accounts, he himself is stalker.

"I mean," John continues, standing from where he sits at his desk, "I'm certain the library  _and_ the labs are  _riveting_  and all, but I wasn't aware you could actually spend every waking moment in each."

"Oh, I-" Sherlock stammers, gaze falling from tanned cheeks to the tiled, dingy floor, hoping an answering will be found somewhere down there. "I don't, um… I didn't- I- I had work to do."

He can practically hear John's eyebrows raise themselves in disbelief. "Oh, yeah?" John's question, dripping with sarcasm, hangs in the air as Sherlock nods to the ground. "Work that takes up every waking moment of the day and into the late hours of the night? On the first week of uni? You've must got some tough professors."

A flash of guilt settles low in Sherlock's gut at the blatant incredulity in John's words.

Which is  _absurd_.

John is nothing to him. John doesn't even  _know_  him. John is busy with sports and friends and has absolutely no time for strange teens like Sherlock Holmes. John won't even  _like_ Sherlock once he realizes who he's dealing with. John should just be the good little boy that he pretends to be and make his friends and play his sports and date pretty girls and go to school like-

Wait.

"What are you even doing here?" Sherlock suddenly demands, snapping his head back to look directly into sparkling blue eyes, ignoring the hot flash sizzling through his body like a lit fuse. God, John Watson is beautiful. But, no. No time for this now. "Aren't you supposed to be in class?"

John seems momentarily startled by the outburst, before recovering with a frown. "You know my schedule?"

Goddamn it.

Sherlock is off his game.

"It's daytime on a Wednesday," Sherlock bites back with a glare as though John is the problem. Better to be snippy than caught red handed observing. "It's natural to assume you would be attending your courses during the day."

The frown remains on that round, adorable face. "Uh-" John glances quickly at the calendar on his desk, "it's Tuesday."

Fuck.

Sherlock barely swallows an irritated growl, furious with himself at all the tells he's giving away. Why is everything so bloody  _complicated_  with John Watson?

John is bloody distracting. He has no time for these distractions. "Whatever," Sherlock whips his hand through the air with an eye roll. "Besides, why do you even care where I was? I'm certain you've enjoyed having a room all to yourself. Wouldn't you prefer I didn't come back?"

He has no idea where that just came from but now that he thinks about it, it's probably true. John came from a house run by a woman he clearly looked after, as well as a disaster of a sibling, brother or sister still unclear, his caregiver vibes coming off in waves with his obvious concern about where Sherlock has been. He's trying to hide the worry behind irritation but after years of stomaching Mycroft's overbearing ways and Mrs. Hudson's hand-ringing, Sherlock can spot the weight of what John presumes a burden of his roommate's safety all over his face.

John's frown deepens, brows furrowing with a mix of confusion. "Why would you say that?"

"Oh, please," Sherlock replies flippantly, looking away to search for a nonexistent book he plans to fake needing immediately. A means of getting out of this small space with this too gorgeous of a boy looking at him like he... like he  _cares_. "Every boy our age would love a room to themselves. You, in particular, must appreciate the space, seeing as the tiny house you moved from was occupied by two other people you don't even like. I'd say you've enjoyed this week alone more so than you'd ever lead on. You think you're being noble, pretending to care about my whereabouts, as you've always been the caregiver in your household. But not because you wanted to be. Because you  _had_  to be. No father, an angry mother and a sibling you despise put you in that position and you had no other choice. Well, now you do. You've no obligation to my well-being, so you can stop the worried mother act."

Sherlock refuses to look up. He figures John will either grab him by the collar and ring his neck, or get right to it and punch him in the face. Just another day in the life of Sherlock Holmes.

John doesn't seem to be moving, let alone actually breathing. Sherlock ignores him in favor of searching for that godforsaken book he can't seem to locate. Where are all his books? If he can snatch one up and make his escape, maybe he'll avoid the inevitable beating. If he can get out of here right now before John comes to, he can fall back into the routine of hiding out during the day and coming back late at night. It works perfectly, after all. He'd prefer to keep a good distance away from John at all times. He can't have his hormones acting up at their own accord every time the blond boy looks in his direction.

Now if he could just find that-

"How... how did you know that?"

Sherlock freezes where he's leaning down, searching for the long lost chemistry text he'd swore he shoved under the bed. "What?" he replies sharply from his bent position, not expecting a  _question_  of all things.

He hears John shuffle his feet uncomfortably and Sherlock stands, whipping around to face his potential attacker.

John, for his part, looks entirely harmless, no trace of anger or bitterness in his eyes. Only open curiosity. "All that," John waves his hand toward Sherlock as though to explain what he's talking about. "How did you know all that? About me?"

Sherlock falters for a half a second, trying to determine where this is going. Why John is asking this.

"I didn't know," Sherlock mutters, "I saw." Normally, the  _how did you know that_  question comes with a hand wrapped around his throat, so Sherlock can't help it that he's a bit thrown.

"Saw it?" John ventures, stepping closer. "Saw what?"

Sherlock regards him for a long moment, attempting to determine exactly what it is John is looking for.

However, without warning, the deductions are rolling off his tongue as his stream of thoughts shoot down from his brain and out of his mouth.

"Your side of the room is unnaturally clean for an eighteen-year-old boy, it's obviously something that's important to you, something you grew up with, indicating you grew up in a mother-run home. Not all women care about tidiness, mind you, but seeing as you're from a single-parent home, it isn't difficult to assume you grew up with a mother and not a father. You play rugby but you play because you love it, not for parental approval. Fathers are generally more concerned about sports than mothers, pointing me to your fatherless situation. You keep all your possessions hidden away, within the confines of drawers, closets and boxes under your bed as though you're afraid someone could come in at any moment and take them, leading me to believe you have a sibling you keep your things hidden from. If you were on good terms, you wouldn't have developed a natural need to keep your items safe. Your sibling didn't come to drop you at uni. Nor did your mother. You resent them, maybe because you had to take care of them your whole life, more likely because you can't understand why when your father left, they couldn't rise above it like you did. You stand rigid but your shoulders are slightly hunched, as though bracing yourself for the ceiling to come down on your head at any given time, while simultaneously being impressed with the size of our room, leading me to believe you lived in a small house falling apart at the seams. Simple."

Exhaling deeply, Sherlock glares down at his roommate defiantly, daring him to do something. He isn't sure why he has a natural tendency to poke the bears that threaten him, but Sherlock has never been a coward and doesn't plan on becoming one now. Even though he has no desire for John to punch him and shatter the illusion he has about John Watson and his perfection.

John, for his part, is gaping. His lips are parted, his eyes twinkling with something like interest.

Actually, no. Not interest.

Intrigue.

Fascination.

 _Excitement_.

Sherlock swallows hard.

"And- and the rugby thing?" John prompts, practically bouncing on his toes as he steps forward. "How'd you... how'd you know I play?"

Darting his eyes to the obvious conclusion, Sherlock feels a swoop of disappointment that he has less of a deduction and more of an observation about that particular fact. He finds that he'd like to dazzle John again. Apparently, Sherlock being himself dazzles John.

It's... a rather nice feeling actually.

"Uh," he says, nodding his head to the bag sitting neatly under John's bed. "Your bag."

And just as he'd assumed, John's features fall slightly. "Oh," he sounds slightly disappointed and Sherlock hates it. "Right."

"And you're fit," Sherlock hurries to explain, wishing John's lip would curve upward again into that enchanted smile. "You're lean but bulky, obviously playing a contact sport. Rugby wasn't hard to assume."

And just like that, the lip curls and Sherlock's eyes widen slightly, his own lips parting with anticipation, suddenly swept away by the fact that he could watch John Watson smile for the remainder of his life.

"Ah," John nods with a teasing grin. "Checking me out, were you?"

His parted lips snap shut hard on a clenched jaw as the blood rushes to Sherlock's cheeks in a rather undignified blush. He looks away from John's beautiful face, absolutely humiliated that he'd given himself away so spectacularly. "No, I wasn't... I didn't mean... I-"

"I'm kidding," John laughs, and Sherlock closes his eyes.

John's short, calloused fingers close around his arm. "Hey, Sherlock, I'm kidding, really," he still giggles but it's... nicer somehow. It's not condescending or rude, just... almost fond? And his hand... it's so... warm...

Sherlock steals a glance back at him just to see those soft features crinkled with mirth, John nodding at him encouragingly, dropping his hand. Sherlock curses the loss of contact.

It's such an unfamiliar feeling, being looked at like this. Sherlock isn't entirely sure how to react. "Yes, well," he mumbles, feeling monumentally stupid.

"Well, I had to say something," John chuckles, running a hand through his hair. "I mean, that... what you did, that... that was  _amazing_."

Sherlock blinks.

And blinks again, trying to decipher what cruel insult that could possibly be.

John stares right back, still grinning, still happy as can be.

This blond boy cannot  _say things like that_. This blond boy cannot  _look like this right now._  It knocks the air from Sherlock's lungs. It threatens to  _suffocate_  him.

"You think?" Sherlock ventures, hope hovering over his insides, begging to be let free and warm him all over, but Sherlock won't let it go. Not yet. Not until he's sure.

"Of course it was," John tosses his hands in the air in excitement, features lighting up. "You know it was. That was... extraordinary. Absolutely,  _extraordinary_."

He knows, he bloody well  _knows_  he's staring, but he can't help it. He can't help gaping like a stupid guppy at this gorgeous boy praising him and his deductions and calling him... calling what he does amazing. Extraordinary.

A tiny, happy little bubble rounds itself out inside his chest, threatening to pop if Sherlock isn't careful.

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock mumbles to the floor.

John snorts. "Really? What do people normally say?"

Attempting to be as nonchalant and uncaring as possible, Sherlock shrugs and mutters, "Piss off."

"Oh," John replies, "yeah, I suppose that could be another response. I mean, you _did_  just lay out my entire life for me without asking me a single question."

His tone is light and Sherlock glances up.

John is still grinning. "I have a sister by the way."

Furrowing his brow, Sherlock cocks his head. "I know," he says, a bit defensively, although truthfully he hadn't been sure if it was a sister or a brother. He'd guessed a houseful of women was what John was dealing with but that could have easily been the single-mother-environment giving off that vibe.

"Well, you said sibling so I couldn't be sure," John smirks with a wink.

Sherlock forces himself to roll his eyes to distract from the blush creeping into his cheeks and John laughs.

"Can you do that with anything?"

All he can do is nod. He's terrified of what may come tumbling out of his mouth if he speaks.

"That's incredible," John shakes his head in disbelief, lips still parted and curved in a shocked smile. "Really, brilliant. What are you studying? Wait, no let me guess. Psychology? Sociology?"

A sharp, rather condescending bark of a laugh escapes Sherlock's lips and he regrets it immediately. He didn't mean to sound like such a prat but _really_? Psychology? Sociology?  _Never_ would  _Sherlock Holmes_  study either of those subjects _willingly._

However, he didn't mean to react like that. Not to the one boy who has been nice to him. Ever. The stab of guilt lingers in his gut.

Until he meets John's eyes.

The blond-haired boy is smirking, brows raised in an incredulous tease. "Oh, are those subjects  _beneath_  you, Sherlock?"

Teasing.

Sherlock has never  _ever_  been teased. Not like this. Not like... not in a nice way.

A fun way.

Good-natured.

Shaking his head, Sherlock retains the air of someone unconcerned. "I just don't have an interest in those topics."

"Okay fine so out with it then, since I was  _so_  far off," John's eyes glint when he's being facetious.

Sherlock is trying desperately not to grin. The positive attention is a bit overwhelming. "Um," he mutters to his shoes. "Chemistry. I'm studying Chemistry."

"Wha- seriously?" John's voice sounds completely shocked and Sherlock chances another look. This whole conversation is throwing him for one serious loop. He simply nods. John furrows his brow. "Why?"

And for some unknown reason, that makes Sherlock laugh. Sincerely, laugh. "I like Chemistry," he chokes out between breaths, having no idea what this feeling in his chest is. "I enjoy experiments."

John is grinning. "What on earth do you experiment on?"

"Oh, all kinds of things," Sherlock ventures out a little further from his comfort zone, the conversation coming far easier than he'd thought possible. "The teachers at my secondary school were complete idiots. I had to conduct my own experiments just to learn something. Though I'm quite certain we would have never tested the flammability of wool socks in class."

"Why would anyone need that information?"

It's Sherlock's turn to frown. "Why not?"

John huffs a laugh. "Touché," he grins, shaking his head slightly as though unable to believe the conversation he's having. His gaze trails down Sherlock's slender form for a half a beat before it finds Sherlock's eyes again. "You're an interesting guy, Sherlock."

Oh for the love of all that is holy, Sherlock is  _fidgeting_  under the stare of John Watson like a besotted schoolboy and he  _knows_  it but he can't  _help_  it because beautiful blue eyes are looking at him like  _that_. Not like he's some sort of oddity or weirdo or freak but like he's an  _interesting guy_. John thinks he's  _interesting_.

The blush is coming back in full force and Sherlock can't look away.

Thank god for John doing it first before the blood rushing up Sherlock's neck reaches the capillaries in his cheeks.

"Well," the blond boy says, "it's nice to know a little about my roommate."

And just like that, the spell is broken and Sherlock takes a miniature step back, trying to shake himself out of… whatever that was.

"Yes," Sherlock replies, his throat gone a bit dry. He clears it and says, "And you? What are you studying?"

Sherlock never asks anyone anything about themselves. He doesn't usually care enough to ask.

But he cares now.

He cares very much about any information he can glean about John Watson.

"Medicine," John replies, sitting back down to his desk and shuffling his papers and Sherlock takes the moment free of scrutiny to raise his eyes to the ceiling and curse himself to the high heavens.

 _Of course_  John wants to be a doctor. That is so blatantly obvious. Sherlock could have deduced that for John. Sherlock could have shown him how he knew that based on the textbooks scattered and John's natural caregiving and protective instincts would give way to a-

"But you probably already knew that, yeah?" John teases, chuckling at his own cleverness as he searches for something along his desk.

"Well, it would be the logical step for you, with your background," Sherlock murmurs, taking less pleasure in John's happy little giggle when it wasn't from something Sherlock said, though that light feeling in his chest has yet to dissipate.

"Of course," John agrees, still laughing as he retrieves the item he'd been searching for – his phone. He glances at it and swipes it open with his thumb. "Are you hungry? Some of the rugby boys want to get lunch."

And just like that, the bubble bursts and the real world comes racing in on all sides and Sherlock's pleasant afternoon comes to a grinding halt.

The rugby team.

Absolutely not.

That would be entirely unsafe.

That would only lead John to the obvious conclusion quicker that Sherlock is not actually interesting but just crazy, like all boys his age believe, and the excitement John exhibited whilst talking to Sherlock would come to a stop and a wonderful conversation like the one they'd just had would never happen again.

No, he can't spend a moment with John anywhere outside their room. He wants to make this last as long as possible.

Besides, Mycroft would know.

And what good would that possibly do if Mycroft were aware of his every move?

"I-… I'm not hungry," Sherlock replies, a bit snappish if he's being honest, the irritation of losing John's attention to a bunch of nasty rugby brutes stinging a bit more than Sherlock had thought it would. "Thanks, anyway."

John shrugs, a small lift and fall of his shoulder as he stands. "Alright. Well… I'll uh- see you later, yeah?"

The hesitation is immediate and Sherlock isn't sure which way to fall before John is speaking again.

"I know you said all that about me enjoying having a room to myself," John says as he pulls on his jacket. "But truthfully, it's kind of quiet around here. You're uh… always welcome here, you know."

It's a bit silly, being offered up his own room as a gift, but Sherlock finds himself oddly grateful.

John looks a bit embarrassed. "I mean… I didn't meant to make it sound like I had to invite you into your own room or anything… obviously it's your room, too, I just mean… if you were uncomfortable, thinking I didn't want you here or something, just… just know that it's fine. It's all fine. You can… you should come back. More often. Not just three hours a night."

Sherlock smiles, thankful that John is also avoiding his eyes. He doesn't think he could look into those beautiful ocean-deep blues right now. Not without swooning like an idiot. "I know," Sherlock murmurs, stealing a glance at the blond boy. "Thank you."

John lifts his head, a grin already plastered on his face. "No problem." He glances around and lifts his hands, palms up. "So… welcome to your room. Again. Or something."

Sherlock chuckles in reply. "Go eat, John."

John laughs and turns toward the door. He pulls it open and pauses in the doorway, tossing a glance over his shoulder. "I will see you later, though. Today. Right?"

The hope in his eyes is too precious for Sherlock to reply with anything other than, "Of course."

John grins. "Perfect. See you."

Sherlock waits for the door to close, the snick of the latch sharp in the silent room, before he smiles to himself so hard his cheeks hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING!! *Nice* feedback is greatly appreciated! If you hated it, do me a favor and don't tell me, okay? I hope to continue this with at least weekly updates! XO!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _As always, a very VERY special thanks to ishaveforsherl, thank you so much for your thoughts and ideas and support and love, I truly couldn't do this without you!_  

"Okay, so you're a public school brat from London," John muses, lips twitching at the affronted scrunch of his roommate's face. "Got it."

"Excuse me, but I am not a  _brat_ ," Sherlock bites back, throwing his hands to his hips indignantly, effectively proving John's statement. "I am...  _privileged_ , maybe. But not by  _choice_."

John nods with feigned seriousness. "I see. If you could choose, you'd be a poor sod living on the streets then?"

Pursing his lips, Sherlock fights the grin, though his eyes light up a bit at the teasing. "Maybe."

No longer able to resist, John tosses his head back and laughs. "I'll bet you would," he tells the ceiling.

With an irritated huff and a glare, Sherlock tugs his goggles down from where they sit perched on his head and seats himself in his desk chair, turning his full attention back to the colorful array of liquids sitting in glass beakers and test tubes across his desk.

They're on their fourth evening of this, John sprawled across his bed on his stomach, chin leaning against his palms, rapidly cooling plate of half-eaten chicken curry lying just in front of him as he listens to his unbelievably captivating roommate.

_Captivating_.

That was the best word he could think of to describe Sherlock Holmes.

And after four days, John still has no idea why. No idea why he found himself glowing when exiting his dorm room after his first real conversation with his new roommate only days earlier. No idea why he found himself grinning, at practice, at mealtime, at any point of the day really, only half-listening to his rugby mates take turns throwing jabs at each other, barely paying attention to drills and plays. No idea why he heard nothing any of his professors said all week long, taking no notes and remembering no facts. John had spent the remainder of the week deep in his thoughts, trying to sort through what exactly it was about Sherlock Holmes that was so goddamn  _captivating_?

And why on earth was the result of that captivation John returning to his room with a steaming bag of Indian takeaway on that first night like some smitten teenager, essentially dropping a date night into Sherlock's lap and praying to god that he would not only accept but enjoy every minute of it?

Of course, the nerves had slipped freely away after John had jimmied open the door with his elbow and come face to face with giant green eyes staring back at him from beneath large plastic safety goggles, the rubbery fastenings pulled tight around dark curls, forcing them to stick out on all sides and making the boy wearing them look impossibly young and a little insane and fucking adorable.

John had giggled, barely remembering his grand scheme of having dinner together, mindlessly unpacking the boxed meals while eyeing his roommate with unmasked fascination. Sherlock had hardly acknowledged the food, though he did nod his thanks, and John would swear up and down twice that Sherlock's pale, sharp cheekbones had gone just slightly pink before he pushed his goggles up onto his head and turned away, busying himself with setting his plate of lamb makhani in its rightful place on his cluttered desk, which had at some point while John was away, manifested a rather expensive looking microscope, several different sized test tubes sitting along a steel-wired rack and a few rather thick textbooks.

"Why do you have that?" John had inquired about the microscope, deliberately choosing to question the most lavish item first, to which Sherlock responded with a grumbled response about its necessity when experimenting.

Again with the experiments.

And so began nightly rituals of John returning to the room after the school day had come and gone, a random choice of dinner in hand - because really, John had no idea what Sherlock ate - grin on his face, almost always finding Sherlock bent over his microscope or a textbook or his mobile phone, looking extremely busy and almost wild, information about things John could barely keep up with pouring out of his mouth about tests he'd run in the lab or books he'd found in the library or professors he'd corrected in class. It hadn't taken long for Sherlock to become comfortable talking John's ear off, something John had begun to cherish after so many days of silence.

And the  _way_ Sherlock talked. He spoke with such conviction and passion, like everything he'd said was absolute fact and not to be questioned and John, though he probably should know better, was immediately enthralled.

Sherlock Holmes is absolutely  _brilliant_.

And really, John should be rather ashamed of himself. This boy he now rooms with... well, he is a  _genius_. A proper one. A really and truly intelligent bloke that spoke a mile a minute about things John had never even heard of, chatting about facts and hypotheses and the idiots he encountered on a daily basis. Sherlock Holmes is beyond smart and a little snarky and rather rude and absolutely  _fantastic_. And John has no business taking up every night of his week with forced feedings and questions and, god help him,  _flirting_.

And that's what John should be the most ashamed of. But he's not. He's not ashamed of his constant eye-appraisals and seductive eyebrow raises and the  _shameless_  teasing he's had no qualms about. He should be mortified at his innuendos and unabashed charm oozing out on every word and grin and shoulder shrug. He should be horrified by his behavior.

And maybe he would be if Sherlock reacted negatively toward it.

But Sherlock... well, Sherlock doesn't seem to know how to react.

And this is the part that John loves.

Sherlock fidgets slightly at any comment that hints of something more. Sherlock always looks away, never able to look John in the eye during one of these moment, and blushes - oh god, the  _blushing_  - but never is he outright uncomfortable.

In fact, if John didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock enjoys his attention. On occasion, for the briefest of moments, John can even catch a hint of a smile. A little grin that escapes onto Sherlock's lips, making that pink-cheeked boy look pleased as punch, before schooling his features back to unaffected and posh and far too busy to be worrying about such trivial things as his roommate's  _interest_  in him.

And really, for John's sanity, he needs to bloody knock it off because it's giving John far too much confidence. Confidence he has no business having. Confidence that Sherlock is gaining something from their interactions. Confidence that Sherlock _likes_  him. Confidence that is only fueled when Sherlock Holmes is blushing all kinds of red after one of John's teasing little remarks.

And frankly, it's killing John not to make some sort of move because the tension he feels crackling in the room every single night is driving him a bit mad. What that move would be though, he has no bloody idea. John has never approached a boy before. He's fantasized, sure. Dreamed, of course. Considered all different types of scenarios where he had the guts to do it, absolutely.

But fantasizing and dreaming and considering are not the same as actually doing.

And Sherlock is his sodding  _roommate_ , for christsake. If he acts on his feelings, if he steps one foot out of bounds of friendship and he finds that Sherlock doesn't feel the same way…

John has better sense than to completely blow up his living situation.

And so now as they sit across from each other, Sherlock perched at his desk, goggles strapped to his face, pouring a greenish liquid from a beaker into a clear test tube, John can't help but watch, as has become his norm in the past few days, utterly enchanted by the crazed scientist that is his roommate.

John supposes Greg wasn't too far off about Sherlock being a mad man, though he would have preferred to not have been told in the way that he was.

Still, it hasn't hindered John's utter fascination, borderline obsession with Sherlock.

"So how does a  _privileged_  bloke like yourself find such pleasures in chemistry?" John asks, wondering if his blatant questioning into every facet of Sherlock's life bothers the curly-haired boy. Wondering if it gives away his true interest. He's assuming not since Sherlock seems to answer every question, while making equally invasive inquiries of his own. "I always thought the rich were more interested in fancy parties and making sinister connections and plotting to take over Britain than they would be in some silly compound equation."

Without taking his eyes off his work, Sherlock mutters, "Someone's been watching too many Bond films."

John laughs. "Yes, yes I have, but it was my only source of information on the elite. Now I live with one. So tell me things! What's it like living in a mansion?"

"I've forgotten," Sherlock mutters flippantly, "I've been living in this tiny room for far too long, I hardly remember the life of the affluent."

Rolling his eyes, John glares. "Come on. There has to be _something_  interesting. I mean, your brother interns for the British government for godsake, I'm sure the Holmes family has all sorts of connections for him to gain such a prestigious position."

That gave the curly-haired boy pause as he freezes where he sits, tube still clutched in his hand. He turns slightly to John before thinking better of it, turning back to place the test tube on the rack with the others, pushes his goggles, along with his curls, up off of his face, then turns to John with something along the lines of an amused disbelieving smirk on his face. "I'm sorry," he says slowly as though John may not comprehend his words, "you think my brother  _interns_  for the British government?"

"Uh-" John stutters, suddenly unsure if the little information he's gleaned about Mycroft Holmes is wildly inaccurate. "I...yeah. That's what Greg said anyway." He frowns. "I mean they _are_  dating," he attempts to defend his knowledge, "so he would know, right?"

Sherlock seems to be lost in thought, blinking rapidly at John as though he can't decide if he's the most fascinating or ridiculous person on earth. His lips are parted half curved into a grin, his brow pinched. "John," he begins, shaking his head for good measure before continuing. "John, my brother is not an intern for the British government. Mycroft Holmes is currently in training to  _become_  the British government."

Along with a dubious eyebrow raise, John says, "Oh, really? The _entire_ British government, eh?"

Sherlock doesn't flinch. "Yes."

"And you say _I'm_  dramatic," John teases, though the look on Sherlock's face is so earnest it makes something in John's stomach flip unpleasantly. "I can't imagine one man runs this country."

Turning back to his unnaturally green liquid, Sherlock shrug. "It doesn't matter much if you can imagine it or not. It's the truth."

He says it with such casualty, John wonders if he's simply being honest. "Okay fine," John challenges, " your brother  _is_  the British government. How did he end up with the likes of a university rugby captain, then?"

A small smile stretches along Sherlock's lips and a tiny, pleased little giggle emits itself from his mouth.

Sherlock just  _giggled_.

John's heart stutters in his chest and he's suddenly coming to a conclusion; a giggling Sherlock Holmes is an  _adorable_  Sherlock Holmes.

"Now  _that_  is a question I do not have the answer for," Sherlock grins, squeezing the end of a rubber test tube to produce small droplets of a clear liquid John has decided he doesn't need to know the name of.

" _You_ don't know the answer?!" John feigns shock and appall, slapping a hand to his chest. "My god, what _ever_ am I going to do now that Sherlock Holmes doesn't have a proper answer as to why his brother is dating my best  _friend_?"

"Yes, how will you survive," Sherlock smirks, blinking down into the tube that now resembles the color of a cloudy London morning.

"I haven't a clue," John replies with a dramatic sigh. He grins when he sees a little smile form on Sherlock's lips. "So, do you like him?"

"Who?"

"Lestrade."

Sherlock frowns down into his dark liquid. "Oh. Why should it matter if I do?"

Shrugging, John says, "I dunno. Aren't people supposed to care about who their siblings are dating?"

Pausing with another droplet tube in his hand, Sherlock seems to consider that. "I suppose," he decides. "Though I don't much care for my brother. Why should I care about his boyfriend?"

John snorts. "Fair point," he laughs, shaking his head fondly at his impossible roommate.

Because if John has learned one thing over the past four days, it is that Sherlock is  _impossible_. Although, that's not the only thing he's learned. Not by a long shot.

At first glance, the curly-haired boy comes off rather rude. He's a bit snippy and short, especially when things don't interest him. He's chatty and excitable, seemingly only willing to talk about his experiences and thoughts, hardly interested in speaking about family or relationships of any kind. Sherlock is not friendly or open, he has zero interest in spending time with John outside of the four walls of their dorm room, particularly against spending a single bleeding moment with anyone on John's rugby team. He's shy while simultaneously abrasive, nervous while also rude, curious but equally a know-it-all.

But for some unknown reason, John can see more. So much more than what Sherlock puts off. John can see that there is so much more to Sherlock Holmes.

And he wants to know all those things Sherlock doesn't say, all those secrets Sherlock is obviously keeping. John wants to know it all. John wants to know  _everything_.

It's a bit terrifying, if he's honest, to care this much about someone he barely knows. It's a bit insane, truthfully.

John chooses not to analyze that too deeply. Not now.

"And what about you, then?" John ventures, knowing full well the territory he's about to enter and daring to go there anyhow, a bit desperate to know. Because he doesn't know. He suspects, hell he may even have heard a rather telling conversation on that first day he'd entered their shared room, overhearing a spat between Sherlock and his...whatever Mrs. Hudson is to him. But he doesn't know. And he wants to know. So badly.

"What about me what?" Sherlock mumbles, eyes lighting up as the cloudy liquid swirls to purple, hand hovering over the mixture with a beaker filled with yet another liquid sloshing around within it, poised and ready to pour.

John swallows. Moment of truth. "Does your brother like your…. girlfriend? Or, uh- boyfriend?"

"What?!" Sherlock startles harshly, body whipping toward John so quickly half the unknown liquid spills out, half landing in the tube, the rest sloshing out on to the desk beneath it, droplets bubbling slightly before settling into the wood permanently.

"Jesus," John gasps, diving off his bed and scrambling for a drawer under his bed for towels to wipe up the mess.

Which he finds he is too late for as the purple liquid suddenly swirls with purpose, darkening slightly and beginning to rise, bubbling up ominously.

"Uh oh," Sherlock mutters, pushing back from the desk and rising hastily from his chair, still watching the mixture with interest.

"What?" John asks, hand half-outstretched with unhelpful flannels. He blinks up at the curly-haired boy as Sherlock's backward steps bring him to John's side, whose eyes are locked on the rapidly rising liquid. "Sherlock?"

"Uh-" Sherlock mutters, lips pinching. "I… think we'd better exit the room."

"Wha- why?" John asks, voice higher in pitch as the purple liquid begins to gurgle.

"Because I think that's about to explode," Sherlock replies calmly, nodding at his desk.

" _What_?" John barks, panicking slightly with this new information. He whips his head back around to the menacing test tube, and then back to Sherlock.

Sherlock nods calmly, not at all affected by John's tone. He beckons John to follow, still backing up toward the door as though his calm demeanor will somehow keep the liquid from detonating. "Yes. Come along. No need to stay in here to experience it."

Wide-eyed, John turns back to the desk and mimics Sherlock's movements, taking slow steps away from the angry swirl of chemicals, suddenly very aware that he has absolutely no idea how bad this could actually be.

Which seems mildly funny.

"If we survive this," John mutters, speaking quietly as though the liquid may here him and decide to blow up on command, "I'm enforcing a rule. No more experiments in this room."

Sherlock has the audacity to scoff. "Please," he huffs, murmuring along with John. "Like you could stop me."

"Watch me," John challenges, in no mood to argue the point, though the smile he's fighting is telling all on its own.

Sherlock isn't looking at him.

"Really, John, if you're going to… uh- oh -  _DUCK_!"

Sherlock's arm locks around John's neck just as he makes his way to his side and takes him down, bringing John into a headlock, pulling him behind the door of his own closet as the sound of glass shattering fills the silence of the room.

" _Fucking hell!_ " John barks, heart in his throat as Sherlock holds him down, practically shielding John's body with his own, his cheek pressing to the top of John's head, essentially curling his body around John's. He huddles close, chest pressed to John's shoulder, hand gripping his bicep on the opposite side.

John's breath catches in his throat.

Sherlock smells  _divine._

It's stupid, really. Very stupid for John to be noticing the scent of the boy he's currently using as a protection shield from a chemical explosion, but John's senses and John's head and John's bloody _heart_  don't seem to care for logical at the moment.

There is a spice that he can't define, mixed with something soft and natural, all lying just below a nice clean scent, like fresh towels and soft sheets. The ends of dark ringlets tickle John's ear and he can just make out how silky they truly are. Silky and smooth, just like they look.

John inhales deeply, frozen to the spot he's in, Sherlock's body pressed to his, and tries to come back to himself because the boy he's been so unbelievably captivated by all these days is suddenly everywhere and John is quite unprepared.

And when Sherlock is suddenly moving, John has to dig his fingers into his jeans and keep himself from reaching out and pulling Sherlock back into him, cursing the loss of contact so bitterly it frightens him.

The blast is sharp but quick and Sherlock is unfurling and straightening too soon, leaving John feeling oddly cold and alone.

Though Sherlock doesn't go far, eyes assessing any possible damage that may have been done.

Not the damage to the room, though.

The damage to John.

"Are you alright?" He demands, stepping a half-pace away and running a keen eye up and down John's form. "Are you hurt?"

Shaking his head, John attempts not to blush at how incredibly intimate this feels. "I'm fine," he mutters, "I'm good. You?"

"Hm?" Sherlock replies distractedly, still eyeing John carefully, hands clasped tightly behind his back. His eyes shimmer with data John can see him gathering from whatever he sees, the deep green of his irises lightening to a cloudy gray in the span of a single blink.

His eyes. God, his  _eyes_.

Sherlock is stunning on his worst day but there is something about those eyes that make John's heart pound just a little harder.

"You're okay?" John reiterates, already knowing the answer. The explosion was minor, even he could tell that, and they'd been covered, but he desperately needs a reason to break his reverence before he gives himself away entirely.

"Oh, yes, of course," Sherlock blinks back at him with a furrowed brow, implying an unsaid  _don't be ridiculous; of course I'm fine_ , at the end of it.

And just like that, the spell is broken and John can breathe again.

Rolling his eyes, he steps around his insane roommate, peering out to see the real damage, unable to continue to look at the curly-haired boy and attempting to shake off the small tremors running through his body at the first physical contact he's had with Sherlock Holmes.

It meant nothing, he knows that. He _knows_  that.

The tingling around his neck and the hitches in his breathing are begging to differ.

"Ah," Sherlock steps up beside him, nodding succinctly. "Not unmanageable."

It irritates John how true that statement is. For how loud the cracking and shattering of the glass was, the mess it created is mostly contained to Sherlock's perfectly chaotic desk, the floor around it and a bit creeping toward Sherlock's bed.

Serves him right.

"Lucky you didn't kill either of us," John scolds, making his way cautiously back to his side of the room, eyeing the floor for any stray shards of glass. "I would have murdered you if you had."

"That scenario is impossible," Sherlock argues, surveying his area – not  _nearly_  as meticulously as he'd surveyed John only minutes ago, John notes - and furrowing his brow. "We'd be dead. Therefore, you couldn't kill me, not only because you wouldn't be alive to do so, but because I wouldn't be alive for you to murder. It's obvious-"

"Oh- _kay_ ," John cuts him off, exasperated by this idiotic conversation. He grabs the flannels from where he'd dropped them on the floor and shoves them in Sherlock's direction. He's feeling a bit off-kilter at the moment and arguing with Sherlock seems to be stirring something else within him, something he can't define. "Why don't you stop running your mouth and start running these flannels over your desk?"

Huffing in annoyance, like  _John_  is the one being difficult, Sherlock plucks them from his hand with a scowl and turns back to the disaster that currently covers his living space.

"You can pout all you want," John replies as he turns back to his desk and slumps in his chair, feeling incredibly out of sorts, his body buzzing while his head spins in confusion. "I don't much care. But you should enjoy that little mess of yours while you can because it'll be the last one you make in here."

Sherlock whips back toward him, shock and outrage obvious in the widening of his eyes and mouth. " _What_?"

"You heard me," John replies tiredly, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I'm enforcing dorm rules. No more experiments in our room."

"That's not fair," Sherlock argues, attempting to keep the anger in full force, though the petulant pout of his bottom lip is threatening to take over. "I live here, this is my room and I can do what I like."

"Not when it's life-threatening you can't," John challenges, turning back to his desk and searching under his papers for his mobile.

"That was hardly  _life-threatening,_  John," Sherlock rolls his eyes like  _John_  is the one being unreasonable. "You're overreacting."

"No, you're underreacting. And I'm not changing my mind. You live on a university campus with like fifteen lab options. Go find one of those to blow things up in."

"I wasn't trying to blow up anything, it was an-"

"Experiment, yes I know. And sometimes experiments go wrong. So go on and do them somewhere they are meant to be done and leave my living area out of it, alright?"

The pinch of Sherlock's brow forms a little crease between his eyebrows, his full lower lip extends outward just a bit and his body slumps slightly, sulking in full force now like his favorite toy has just been taken from him. "John-" he tries to argue but the blond boy is way ahead of him.

"No, Sherlock," John all but barks a little harsher than he'd meant as he retrieves his phone and taps it open to check the time, finding several missed text messages. "No experiments in our room."

"What about-"

"No."

"But what if I-"

"No, Sherlock."

The full on pout of Sherlock Holmes resembles that of a five-year-old child being scolded by their mother. With a loud exhale, Sherlock twists on one heel, stomps to his bed and throws himself down onto the comforter in the most dramatic way he can manage, blankets puffing up around him as he lands face-down on his pillow, curls bouncing along for the ride.

"Wow," John mumbles sarcastically, sliding his thumb across the screen of his phone and doing his best not to laugh at his ridiculous roommate. He scans the texts quickly, finding he's missed several messages on a group text:

**Greg Lestrade:**   
Pre-scrimmage drinks at mine tonight, around 9?

**Paul Dimmock:**   
I'll be there!

**Mike Stamford:**   
I'm in! Johnny, you coming?

**Greg Lestrade:**   
Or has Sherlock got you all to himself again tonight?

**Mike Stamford:**   
Bring him with! I'd love to meet the bloke whose got John Watson all starry-eyed.

**Greg Lestrade:**   
I can't condone my boyfriend's baby brother attending one of my parties so… if anyone asks, I had nothing to do with this.

**Mike Stamford:**   
You didn't. I'm the one inviting him.

**Greg Lestrade:**   
Good. You in, Johnny?

**Mike Stamford:**   
Jooooohn.

**Paul Dimmock:**   
You have to come John! And bring your boyfriend!

**Greg Lestrade:**   
Hahahaha

**Mike Stamford:**   
Hahahahah

John chuckles to himself. Couple of wankers, his teammates.

"What is so funny?" the big baby in the room grumbles from where his head is mashed into his pillow.

John snorts. "Nothing. The lads are having a little get together tonight before the scrimmage tomorrow."

The scrimmage, which John may have slightly forgotten about this entire week, being too wrapped up in what's been going on inside his dorm room. His friends haven't missed it though, giving him hell any chance they got, seeing as he'd blown them off in favor of dinner with Sherlock at least three times that week. These texts were just par for the course, he supposes.

Frankly, he's a bit relieved to have a reason to leave this room. The tension within these walls only moments ago was suffocating and the aftermath has left John a bit shaken. His attraction to Sherlock needs to be kept in check and the longer he stays cooped up in this room, the higher the risk of him doing something monumentally stupid.

The source of his anxiety suddenly sits up in his bed, now-light-blue-eyes piercing John with a stare that sends a small shiver down John's back.

"Are you going?" Sherlock asks coolly, seemingly daring John to answer one of two ways, one being right and the other very much wrong. Which is which, John doesn't know.

"Er- yeah I thought I might pop by," John replies cautiously, feeling like he's just been caught doing something he shouldn't be doing.

"Hm," Sherlock nods, suddenly blinking away his depthless eyes and wiping any emotion from his face, indifference falling into place effortlessly. "Well. Enjoy yourself."

"You can come," John says hastily, suddenly feeling oddly guilty for even contemplating leaving Sherlock behind. It's not Sherlock he wants to get away from; it's the feelings Sherlock is stirring within him that he'd like to exit the building entirely. "If-if you'd like."

Jumping off the bed and landing softly in one swift motion, Sherlock rolls his eyes and swipes up the abandon flannels from the floor. "No, thank you," he replies with manners John wasn't aware he had. It's too formal. Too nice. John doesn't like it.

It hasn't escaped his notice that Sherlock never attends anything to do with the rugby team, declining every time John offers.

"Sherlock, you are more than welcome to-"

"I have a mess to clean up, John," Sherlock says coolly, refusing to look up as he kneels on the floor and begins wiping up the shards of broken glass. "Remember?"

John sighs in resignation. He knew Sherlock would say no to seeing the team. He didn't know he would be so icy about it, though. He normally isn't. John's guilt deepens a bit. "Alright," he mumbles as Sherlock crawls beneath his own bed, following the steady stream of liquid seeping under the frame.

"The boys say I should bring my boyfriend," John laughs weakly as he stands to start gathering his things, though a telling roll wiggles its way through his stomach. He has no idea why he said that. But standing in silence didn't feel like much better of an option.

"You don't have a boyfriend," Sherlock grumbles from beneath his bed, voice giving away no notion that the comment affected him in any way.

"You don't know that," John challenges, a little more forceful, a little more flirtatious than he'd planned.

"Yes, I do," Sherlock replies, slightly muffled. "If you did, you certainly wouldn't be here every night with me."

Something about the way he says  _with me_  makes John's breath catch. He presses on, trying not to overanalyze those words, but his neck feels unbearably hot. He needs to get it together. "I could be dating someone long distance," he disputes, daring Sherlock a little further.

"No late-night phone calls, no constant text messages, no staring longingly at your mobile," Sherlock replies casually. "If you do have a long distance relationship, you are a very bad partner."

John tries hard not to snort and fails as he glances around the room for his belongings. "He could just be busy."

"He could be," Sherlock agrees. "Since he's fake, he could be busy with any number of things you want to pretend he's doing."

"Fuck off," John laughs, shoulders shaking with mirth as he shoves his wallet and phone into his pockets and reaches for his jacket. "You don't know shit." He has to admit he loves their banter, though he wishes he could see if Sherlock is blushing or not. That's his favorite part. He turns to see if he can catch a glimpse of the genius.

"I know everything," Sherlock remarks, still hidden beneath the wooden frame.

And John's knees suddenly go weak.

Sherlock is still tucked under the bed, upper half completely invisible. But his lower half… well his lower half is in full view, round, perfect arse staring back at John, dark jeans pulled tight and accentuating the firmness. John's mouth runs dry as he takes in his first real and true view of Sherlock's backside, staring freely and unobserved.

He should be ashamed. He  _should_  be.

But god almighty, he's not. He's not ashamed of how much he  _wants_.

With a throat clear, John shrugs on his jacket. "Well, I'm off," he mumbles.

"Have a great time with your fake boyfriend," Sherlock teases, backing up and out from where he'd been cleaning. John looks away, sure his face is the color of a ripe tomato.

"You could come if you want, you know," John tries again. He swallows before he utters his next words, certain they will be telling all on their own. He's pushing this again but he never got a straight answer to his question. "Bring your girlfriend."

He sees Sherlock's shoulders tense but the boy is able to relax immediately and shake his head, busying himself with shaking the flannel out over the bin beside his desk.

"Girlfriends aren't really my…area," Sherlock murmurs almost too quietly but John catches it.

"Oh?" John inquires, the hopeful note in his tone too obvious for a practiced observer to miss. "Are… do you… Do you have a… boyfriend?"

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock mutters, "No," down into the bin, avoiding John's gaze.

A giant, thousand-ton weight lifts itself from John's chest and he's suddenly feeling light as a feather. "Oh," he breathes, and even to his own ears it sounds like a sigh of relief. "So- so we're both single, then," he nods, attempting to mask his pleasure. "Good. Great."

Sherlock nods down into the trash. "Yes."

"Right, then," John grins at the back of that curly head, feeling happier than he has all night. "Well, if you change your mind…" Struck with brilliance, John grabs a scratch piece of paper and scribbles his number down. "Text me, okay? If you change your mind."

He barely catches Sherlock glancing down at the paper on his desk, lips parted in what can only be shock, before he turns away from John and continues his cleaning. "Right," he mumbles. "Have fun."

"You too," John teases, spinning on his heel to leave.

"John?" Sherlock's soft voice comes from across the room and John turns expectantly.

"Yeah?"

"I'm- uh… what happened earlier was unfortunate."

A cool panic runs down the back of John's neck. What had happened earlier? Had he done something stupid? Had he given himself away? Had Sherlock seen-

"I…" Sherlock clears his throat, staring down at his feet. "I didn't mean to make this mess and I… it won't happen again."

Relief is immediate and John's shoulders sag minutely. "Oh. That- that's okay. No worries, alright?"

Sherlock nods, though he doesn't look convinced.

"And I know it won't happen again," John sneers teasingly and Sherlock peeks up at him from under his lashes. John grins. "We have rules now."

It's unclear why this sounds like a promise. It's unclear why this sounds like anything other than a fact. But as it rolls off John's tongue, he can feel it hang heavy in the air around him as Sherlock's face darkens to a rather pretty shade of maroon and John is suddenly, desperately, in need of water.

With a small, idiotic nod, John avoids Sherlock's eyes as he yanks the door open hastily and exits the tension filled dorm room, wondering what the hell just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING! We're having a constant lovefest on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come join in! XO!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _As always, a very special thank you to ishaveforsherl, I COULD NOT have done this without you, you're the absolute BEST! THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING LOVE!_  

Just beyond the last row of old, dusty books sitting atop thin metal racks, Sherlock Holmes sits bent over a textbook, back curved harshly, long fingers dug deep in his curls as he rereads the same sentence for the hundredth time. He should give up. He knows he should. He's absorbed no new information, his normal laser-focus eluding him today as he glances at the clock ticking away against the wall across from him.

It's been four hours.

Four hours since Sherlock had slid out from under his warm covers glistening in the early morning sun spilling in from the window, tugged on a pair of dark jeans and a hoodie to fend off London's August chill, slung his book bag over his shoulder and snuck out from his shared quarters with that dashing rugby player sleeping peacefully bundled in his own bed.

If Sherlock were being honest with himself, he could have stayed there all morning watching that shaggy blond head sleep, covers rising and falling so delicately with each breath sliding freely from soft parted lips.

John Watson is gorgeous when he sleeps. He's soft and gentle and calm, glittering blue eyes no longer blazing bright but instead resting beneath tanned eyelids that occasionally flutter with dream, lashes trembling with the effort not to wake. He'd stumbled in late the night before, scraping his key into the lock of their shared room and tossing open the door with a dull thud, having absolutely no idea how loud he was actually being.

"Shhhhh'lock?" John had stage-whispered raspily like a completely arsed imbecile, stepping unevenly along their dingy tiled floor. "You awake?"

Sherlock had been awake. But he didn't need a drunk John to know that. Not when sober John was the kindest, gentlest human being on earth. Sherlock was honestly terrified to shatter that image. And a drunk John could have easily done that.

Although, listening to John murmur to himself as he'd gotten ready for bed had done nothing to reshape that belief. If anything, it had only made it stronger.

"Damn shirt- stupid...fucking... just- oh! There it is. Hm. Perfect. Now the pants. Pants pants pants. Bloody freezing, Jesus. So cold. Sooooo cold…-" John had grumbled and Sherlock had curled tighter in on himself under his covers, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt as his precious roommate attempted to change while inebriated.

But the worst of it, the absolute sodding worst part of the entire ten minutes of listening to an impaired John Watson was after the redressing and after the soft humming as he climbed into bed and after the heavy sigh as he cuddled beneath his sheets. The worst part was this:

"Goodnight, Sh'lock. Have the sweetest dreams everrr," John had murmured into the silent dark of the room, rolling the last 'r' into a soft sigh.

Then promptly started snoring.

Sherlock hadn't slept a wink.

So now, Sherlock hides. Hides away from the beautiful boy he finds even more endearing while drunk. Hides from his thoughts and feelings and staring. Hides from the perfect bloke who seems more than interested in continuing his association with Sherlock. Continuing their evening interactions and shared takeaway that John has taken to bringing home with him every night. Continuing his fascination with Sherlock. Even after listening to Sherlock for hours on end. Even after surviving a small explosion, which seemed to scare Sherlock more than it had seemed to scare John. Which was ridiculous. Sherlock had blown up plenty of things in the past. Never once had he been concerned or frightened of someone being injured. But the thought of John being hurt... the thought of John being in pain…

The  _point_  is that Sherlock is happy to oblige John's current fascination seeing as he's just as fascinated - borderline obsessed - with John Watson.

Except for the tiny fact that John has been pushing to move their - friendship? Sherlock doesn't even know - outside of their room and into the open. Out in public. Out to John's _rugby_  team of all bloody places. On no less than three occasions in the span of a single week John has invited Sherlock to a team event. A meal, a hangout, a party for christssake, and Sherlock has just barely dodged the invitations. He's claimed homework or experiments, forcing an indifferent mask over his features to hide the teenage squirming of his belly at the fact that  _John bloody Watson wants to introduce me to his social circle and allow me to spend time with them and no no no absolutely not, bad plan bad plan bad plan._

Because that would be it for them, wouldn't it? The end of... whatever this qualifies as. No more evening chats over cold curry, no more amused grins and fond headshakes, no more John Watson being utterly fascinated with Sherlock Holmes.

No, fraternizing with the rugby team is a bad idea.

The worst idea.

Sherlock had known several rugby players in his time at secondary school. He was well acquainted with them.

Or, well. He was well acquainted with the way their fists connected with his jaw.

He's met enough of them to know they are all the same.

Except John.

But John is an enigma. An anomaly of all rugby players across London. No, John is unique. There is no way that John's team is full of lovely people like him.

 _Lovely_.

Sherlock mentally chokes on the word.

But it's an excellent description. John is, by all accounts, _lovely_. He's sharp and funny. He's kind and caring. He grins and giggles and beams and doesn't let Sherlock get away with anything while simultaneously letting him get away with everything and Sherlock is slowly descending into madness. Real madness. The kind of madness you can't ever escape.

And based on John's past behaviors, the next step of John's kindness and inclusion of Sherlock would be to invite him to his rugby game.  _Scrimmage_ , as John corrected him seriously earlier in the week when Sherlock had made a face. But still. It's close enough to a game. The rugby players will suit up. There will be an opposing team. The ball will be... thrown? Kicked? Sherlock has no idea. And John will beam up at him in the stands, maybe even wave like this is all in good fun, pleased that he'd gotten his roommate out of their dorm and silently appreciative of the support.

And then the game will end.

And there will be some after-game event. There will be a victory party or consolation drinks, there will be loud, boisterous rugby boys clapping each other on the back and having a laugh, whooping and cheering about their late night gathering, checking to make sure everyone is on board, ready to party the night away. And that short, blond rugby player will turn around, bat his pretty lashes, grin his megawatt smile and train his brilliant blue eyes on his roommate and say, "You coming?"

Within earshot of the entire team. And Sherlock would be unable to escape the request. And that night would be the night that the good old boys of John's inner-circle would figure out exactly what Sherlock Holmes is. How much he doesn't belong. How much of a  _freak_ he truly is. And then it would only be a matter of time before the perfect last week of Sherlock's life comes crashing down around him.

And the curly-haired genius is just not ready for that to happen.

So, he hides. He's made himself scarce, found a cozy spot in the back of the library, and hidden himself away to avoid any sort of invite or smile or sleepy 'good morning' from that perfect athlete he's been focusing all his attention on.

He attempts to reread the sentence he's trailed over nonstop for the last hour and fails. With a sharp yank of his hair, Sherlock growls softly in frustration, though it sounds much louder in the library, and sits back in his chair with a sigh.

"Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe," a soft, feminine voice comes from just beyond one of the racks of books and Sherlock snaps his head up to see a young, petite brunette peering at him with sharp green eyes from around the shelf. "What on earth is my brooding little lab partner doing hiding away in the library at 11am on a Saturday while the entire rest of the university is currently screaming their guts out at our beloved rugby team?"

Narrowing his eyes to a rather impressive glare for half a second, Sherlock drops his gaze back to his textbook. "Studying," he mumbles, truly not in the mood for this right now.

Irene Adler snorts a sardonic little laugh and drops down into the seat across from him, propping her elbows up on the table and Sherlock can practically feel her scrutinizing him. "Awe, come now," she croons, "tell me why the boy genius in my Chemistry class is hiding out in a dusty corner, glaring daggers into a textbook I'm certain has done nothing to deserve it. No team spirit in that thin but rather enticing body of yours?"

"Go away," Sherlock bites back, ignoring the swoop of guilt in his gut at his cruelty to this harmless girl.

Truth is, he doesn't mind Irene most days. Mainly because she's not a complete imbecile. He'd been paired with her in their shared Chemistry lab just the week prior, and before he'd gotten a word out as they'd settled at their shared table, she'd announced, "You better not be a fucking moron. I need to pass this class and have no interest in working with an idiot."

He'd had to fight a grin and they'd worked well enough together for several class periods, though Irene had found a twisted pleasure in saying the most ridiculous things she could think of to Sherlock and/or their classmates and/or the professor and making no apologies for it. On one memorable occasion, Irene had asked if Sherlock's cheekbones had ever cut any of his lovers. It had been utterly horrifying.

Though she made up for her forward comments by actually being intelligent, contributing to their lab rather well, having no problem keeping up with Sherlock's pace. She wasn't wholly unpleasant. Tolerable would be the perfect word to describe her.

That didn't mean he wanted to spend time with her outsid _e_  of the laboratory.

"Well aren't you pleasant this morning," Irene huffs. "Although, this does complete the perfect dark and mysterious picture you seem so hell bent on painting yourself as. Never would Sherlock Holmes be caught dead at anything  _ordinary_  people do. Something as  _mundane_  as an athletic event." She smirks. "You're just too serious and sexy just-"

"What are _you_  doing here, hm?" Sherlock cuts in as his cheeks heat with embarrassment, wishing his body wouldn't react to such simple words. It's not that sex scares him. It doesn't. Not at all. Well, maybe it does a little, mainly because he has absolutely no interest in it with a female but he certainly isn't going to tell  _Irene Adler_  that, of all people. He pushes that thought aside and continues on, eyes still trained on the book in front of him. "Why aren't  _you_  at the game?"

The response isn't immediate and he decides to chance a glance at her only to be met with Irene's infamous smirk. He's just about to roll his eyes when she turns her head and looks pointedly over her shoulder.

Following suite, Sherlock peeks around her to find a small red-headed girl currently reaching up onto her toes to shove a book back into place, steadying herself on the cart full of miscellaneous books she's clearly putting away. Raising his eyebrows, he turns back to the brunette. She tosses a nod in the redhead's direction with a shrug. "What can I say? Boys in shorts don't really do it for me." She raises a perfectly manicured brow. "I'm a sucker for curves."

The forwardness of the comment throws Sherlock for a loop and he blinks several times, grappling with exactly what that means. Irene is a... but she'd said-

"Oh do close your mouth, Sherlock, you look like an idiot," she admonishes, though her lips quirk with the teasing, green eyes glittering at his reaction. "I'm a lesbian. It's not some big secret."

Sherlock frowns. That doesn't add up.

Irene grins wickedly, reading his features like an open book. "You blush like a precious little child when you're being teased," she chuckles by way of explanation. "It's adorable."

Exhaling through his nose in irritation, Sherlock rolls his eyes and looks back at his book in front of him, trying and failing not to be completely humiliated. He should have seen that, should have been able to tell that Irene is gay. Stupid,  _stupid_ , there is always something he misses, but this one should have been so _obvious_ , and now she's going to make fun of him and  _ugh_  if he'd only-

"So," Irene says, smacking a hand down onto the table and startling Sherlock out of his spinning thoughts. "That redhead is playing rather hard to get, and I'm really not in the mood to work for it today. Wanna work on our project?"

Furrowing his brow, Sherlock says, "Our project can be done in class," down to his textbook.

"I know," she replies softly but firmly. Knowingly.

Sherlock lifts his gaze to meet hers. Her lips are pursed in understanding, her head tilted just slightly. Her eyes are soft and kind, silently apologizing if she'd offended him, but doing him the service of not outright saying it to his face. She's being... nice. Kind, even.

He can't decide if he likes it or hates it.

Her features change back to playfulness. "Come on," she nods, going to stand. "I can pick the lock on the lab if it's locked."

"So can I," Sherlock challenges, already moving to grab his bag, not sure why he's going along with this. But he'd rather go distract himself with science rather than sit here spinning his wheels over the boy who lives in his room. The boy who is currently running up and down a grass field, sweat dripping from his tanned skin in rivulets down his temples and neck-

Sherlock clears his throat, glancing down to the bag full of books on his shoulder, none of which are the ones he needs for the their project. "My notes are back at my room. Can we stop there on the way?" His  _empty_  room, thank god. John will be at the game by now.

"Sure," Irene shrugs, picking at a loose thread on her jacket.

They make their way out of the library in comfortable silence, Irene being sure to drop a very suggestive wink at the redhead behind the counter before they exit. It's actually nicer than Sherlock had anticipated, spending time with Irene. No expectations, no pretenses. It's...calming. And maybe a bit nice not to be in his own head for a minute.

The doors to the outside world swing open and the serenity Sherlock had just been appreciating slowly obliterates into nothing as the quiet around them explodes into hundreds of cheering fans all melding together into one steady cry. Whipping his head around to the left, Sherlock stares up at the rather modest university stadium, the bleachers lining the field currently packed with fans mainly in various shades of red, mouths open as another wave of cheers erupts for whatever is happening on the field. Sherlock finds himself craning his neck slightly to see if he can catch a glimpse of anything or anyone.

Anything or anyone with blond hair and blue eyes and tanned cheeks-

"You wanna go?" Irene is suddenly at his side and Sherlock just barely stops himself from jumping out of his skin, immediately berating himself for losing his mind over the simple possibility of catching even a _glimpse_  of John Watson. "We could go. Everyone else is there."

Sherlock shakes his head immediately before slipping an emotionless mask over his features and frowning in feigned confusion. "Why would I want to go?"

Pursing her lips against a smile creeping onto her lips, Irene lifts her shoulder in an innocent shrug. "Oh, I don't know, Sherlock," she mocks, "why ever would you want to attend a rugby game played by pretty, sweaty boys tackling each other over and over again. I haven't the faintest."

Feeling his face heat, Sherlock turns away. "You don't know what you're talking about," he grumbles, beginning to walk back to his dorm room, doing his best to ignore the splash of green appearing in the corner of his eyesight, the pitch becoming almost clear if he'd turn his head. He stares studiously ahead with effort, ignoring the pull to turn and see if he can catch a blond head darting down the field.

"Oh my god, are you  _closeted_?" Irene suddenly barks, falling into step beside him and throwing the back of her hand to his upper arm in a disbelieving  _smack_.

" _Ow_!" Sherlock gripes, shooting her a glare and rubbing at his arm.

"You  _are_ , aren't you?! Oh my god," Irene continues as though she hadn't just whacked him one, throwing her hands in the air with glee. "Oh my god, that is so  _cute_!"

"Shut up," he grouses, feeling incredibly stupid and Irene cackles.

"Oh, don't be like that," she laughs, closing her fingers around his arm and giving it a small shake. "I'm not trying to be cruel but just... oh god,  _why_? Why are you not  _out_? You are fucking  _adorable._ Someone would  _absolutely_  fall in love with you!"

Wriggling out of her grasp, Sherlock fixes the sleeve of his sweatshirt, glancing around to double check no one is within earshot. "Will you keep it down? I don't think every single member in that screeching crowd didn't hear you."

"Oh, this is too good," Irene grins with a little skip in her step as they round the corner to his residence hall. "I mean,  _really,_  Sherlock it's 2015  _and_ you're at uni. My guess is that most of the kids here are at least questioning, maybe bisexual, if not  _super_  gay and everything in between. You're in good company. Why not just come out? And find a good boy to show you all the dirty ways to-"

" _Alright_ ," Sherlock snaps, heat blooming at the back of his neck. He really doesn't want to be having this conversation right now. He really doesn't want to be having this conversation  _at all_. "I get it, alright?"

They walk along in silence for a moment, although he can feel Irene's giddy energy coming off of her in waves, clearly quite pleased to have found herself a closeted little gay boy to pal around with.

Which is so  _stupid_.

Yes, he may be gay... he thinks. But why does it even matter? Really, someone  _loving him_? People don't even  _like_  him. How could they ever-

Besides, does it even qualify if he's never... done anything? Does he count as gay if he's never touched another boy that way? Never had a boyfriend? Never met anyone he's wanted as a boyfriend until recently?

 _Until recently_.

Ugh.

He mentally throws that thought away, squashing it along with all the recently conjured up images of John Watson grinning happily at him and kissing his cheek and holding his hand and holding him close the way a boyfriend would, and scrubs a hand down his face. "H-How, um-" he stutters out softly before clearing his throat and asking his question like an intelligent grown up, "how did you know?"

Irene is silent behind him, the only sound a dull crunch of the gravel beneath their steps. Sherlock frowns and glances over to her, to find Irene with an anticipatory gleam in her eye. "There," she says, throwing a hand up and pointing a long finger at Sherlock's face. "Right there."

Furrowing his brow, Sherlock tries to sort that out before asking, "What?"

"You look at my face when you talk to me," Irene continues as though that's the simplest answer in the world. "Not my lips or my neck or my chest. You look right in my eyes. That's how I knew you were gay. No straight boy ever misses a chance to ogle."

"Oh for the love of- that's not scientific  _at all_ ," Sherlock grumbles, fumbling with his keys in his pocket as they enter his building. He'd sort of hoped there was something more obvious, something in the way he dressed or his hair or his behavior that tipped off his sexuality to people so he could actively  _stop doing it_.

"So?" Irene snaps from behind him. "It's the truth, isn't it?"

"Whatever," he huffs, a little irritated that he'd been swindled into admitting his sexuality based on such a poor observation. He makes his way to his room and unlocks the door, Irene muttering behind him about how he doesn't have to be such a prat all the time, and pushes open the door.

And stops dead in his tracks.

The brunette behind him runs right into his back with an  _oomph_  and Sherlock lurches forward further into his room, closer to his bed.

Closer to what's _on_  his bed.

"Jesus, you can't just stop in the middle of the doorway, Sherlock," Irene grouses, rubbing the heel of her hand to her forehead. "In case you weren't aware, you're like a giant tree, I can't see a damn thing in front of you so if you're going to stop walking willy nilly at least  _warn_  a girl."

Straightening as quickly as he can and shaking himself out of his reverie, Sherlock goes about gathering his chemistry notebook, patently ignoring the fact that his face has completely drained of color and his neck is hotter than Hades, praying to god that Irene doesn't notice or see-

"Why is there a biscuit in the middle of your bed?"

It's like cold ice being poured down his back as Sherlock bends over his desk, pretending to search for his notebook when really he's using it to steady himself and his rapidly beating heart. "What?" he replies, aloof as can be, shuffling papers to appear busy as blood rushes in his ears.

"There is a biscuit sitting right there with- Oh my god."

He knows she's seen it and still he can't turn around. He listens with rapidly quickening breaths as there is a soft rustling and then-

"Oh my god," Irene says again and her heel squeaks on their tiled floor as she spins on it and toward her lab partner. "Sherlock," she reads aloud the note that's scrawled on the napkin that had been sitting beneath the biscuit only moments earlier, " _Missed_  you this morning. Not sure if you ate but I brought this back from the dining hall if you're _interested_. I've got a game at 10 but I'll see you later tonight.  _Or maybe I'll see you there? Love,_   _John._ "

Flipping around so fast he almost trips, and ignoring Irene's implied emphasis on words she deemed important, Sherlock storms at her and rips the note from her hand. "It does _not_  say love?" he tries to bark, though his words come out more of a hopeful question as his wide eyes reread the note. He'd seen it laying there when they walked in but he hadn't actually read over John's squiggly handwriting, preferring to read it alone, heart softening at the gesture of that perfect boy being so goddamn  _perfect_ , leaving him breakfast and a note and Sherlock's eager gaze roams over the small square napkin, taking in every letter bleeding into each other.

And sure enough; no 'love'.

Sherlock's gut swoops in disappointment.

"See," he says rather weakly, dropping the note back to the bed and resisting the urge to flop down on it and sulk.

Of  _course_  John wouldn't sign a silly little note with  _love_.

"Well, it should," Irene replies with a smirk. "That's a love letter."

He knows she's wrong. He _knows_.

It doesn't stop the happy little bubble forming in his chest. "No, it's not," he argues half-heartedly, turning back to his desk.

"Who is _John_?" The eyebrow raise is louder than her words.

Attempting to sound as unaffected as possible, Sherlock shrugs.

"My roommate," he attempts to say loud and sure, but his voice is soft and uncertain. He's not sure why he sounds uncertain. John  _is_  his roommate.

"And he's pining after you, is he?" Irene grins wickedly.

"No," Sherlock mumbles with an eye roll. Pining? Yeah, right. "We're just fr- roommates."

Jesus, that was close. He can't be going around telling people he and John are  _friends_. He's not _that_  stupid.

Though the roommate/friendship line is being toe'd rather seriously by the rugby player. If he knew how idiotic that truly was, Sherlock is certain John would stop doing it. But Sherlock is too selfish to alert him to his mistake. To let John in on the truth. The truth of what Sherlock really is.

"Uh-huh," Irene replies dubiously. "Roommates who leave little treats for each other?"

"He likes food," Sherlock shrugs. "He thinks I don't eat enough."

John hadn't explicitly said that, but he'd certainly implied it with all the meals he's brought back and all the nagging he's done to Sherlock to eat said meals.

"He's taking  _care_  of you?" Irene replies with an over-the-top flail of her arms. "Oh my god, he is  _so_  pining."

"He's not," Sherlock barks viciously because he hates this. He hates even the hint of possibly more with John. More than just soft smiles and late night takeaway and pleased little giggles. He hates to think there could be more. There couldn't. There is barely  _this_  as it is. "He's just- we just live together."

Silence fills the room, with the exception of Sherlock shifting books along his desk and for a beat he thinks he won. He thinks maybe Irene has finally gotten the point and maybe she'll leave him alone.

An absurd pipedream, he now realizes.

"Oh my god," Irene murmurs, a bit awestruck.

Sherlock glances over his shoulder at her to find wide eyes staring back at him. He frowns. "What?"

"You like him, too, don't you?" It's not so much a question as a verification of what Irene apparently deems fact. "Oh my god, you're both pining after  _each other_!"

With a thick swallow, Sherlock turns back to his task, deciding now is the perfect time to retrieve his notebook that's been sitting at the corner of the desk in plain view this entire time, ignoring the ridiculous swooping of his stomach. Irene knows nothing. Irene doesn't even know _John_. How on earth could she even-

No. No, he is  _not_  entertaining this anymore. He knows better. He bloody well  _knows_.

Straightening up and tugging the hem of his sweatshirt down, Sherlock turns with an irritated brow-raise. "We're not," he says sharply. "Now, are you ready to-"

"And he's  _a rugby player_ ," Irene squeals with renewed energy, note back in her hand as Sherlock deflates slightly, losing all conviction to his inattentive audience. She glances up to find Sherlock standing there with his notebook in hand. She frowns. "Oh, no," she shakes her head down at the apparently offensive binding of papers, "we're not doing our project. We're going to the game."

It takes every ounce of willpower not to allow his eyes to bulge freely from his head. " _What_?" he barks, before shaking himself, fury and panic and hope and fear all warring for dominance within him. "No. No. No  _no_ , absolutely not," Sherlock is rambling but please, god, no no. No.  _No_. He'd been specifically  _avoiding_  that. All damn morning he'd been avoiding the godforsaken rugby game. And they were going to go  _now_? No. No.  _No_.

"Yes, absolutely so," Irene says plainly, plucking the binder from Sherlock's grasp and tossing it on his bed next to the forgotten biscuit. She turns to him, her eyes softening ever so slightly and something blooms in Sherlock's chest. Something like hope. "He invited you to his game, Sherlock. He wants you there. And you clearly want to go. So come on," she beckons him to follow toward the exit of the room. "I'll go with you. It'll be fun!"

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

As far as Sherlock is concerned, Irene drugged him. Somehow, someway, Irene had made him drink something or eat something or stabbed him with a syringe full of  _something_ , but he's almost positive she'd incapacitated him somehow, dragged his unconscious body across the university campus, and dropped him right into the stands that surround the rugby field because there is absolutely no bloody way Sherlock Holmes had gotten here on his own. No way had his own two feet carried him here willingly. Absolutely no way.

But, alas, here he sits, blending in nicely in his red hoodie, feeling only the tiniest bit better that John wouldn't actually see him in the sea of red surrounding him. Apparently, according to Irene, they'd arrived at halftime and were able to sneak into some decent seats in the center while the restless crowd got up to grab snacks or stretch their legs or…whatever else people did at sporting events.

Christ, he shouldn't be here. He really,  _really_ shouldn't. He doesn't even know anything about rugby. He's never cared to. Especially when he despised the boys who played it. The boys who equally despised him.

He shouldn't be here.

And yet, he  _wants_  to be here. He wants to see John running up and down that field in front of him, playing the sport Sherlock knows he loves more than anything. He wants to see John smile that ridiculous smile of his when their team does something good. He wants to watch John's blond fringe glisten with sweat in the sunlight, watch his eyes light up with intensity and adrenaline. Sherlock has seen John practice rugby several times, though he should be ashamed to admit that fact. But for some reason, this feels different. This game- _scrimmage_  – seems so… official.

Sherlock doesn't know why that makes his insides squirm.

His heart is pounding rather harshly in his chest with anticipation. He hasn't seen John yet. Both teams are holed up in the locker rooms, hidden away from the crowd, and for some reason Sherlock is becoming a bit desperate to see his roommate. He's here, he'd made it to this game somehow and now he'd just like to get on with it. The anticipation is killing him.

"And that's called a  _scoreboard_ , Sherlock," Irene teases at his left elbow, exaggeratingly pointing her finger toward the giant red billboard at the other end of the field, taking great delight in the fact that Sherlock seems to know nothing about sports. "Can you say  _scoreboard_?"

"Oh piss off," Sherlock grumbles, digging his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt and slouching slightly. "So I didn't know what halftime was. So what?"

With a snort, Irene says, "Most people know what halftime is, Sherlock. It's kind of self explanatory."

"How so?" Sherlock challenges. Furrowing his brow, he rolls the words around in his mouth. "Halftime. Half-time. Half time? That's not even a sentence."

"Half  _the_  time," Irene interjects looking awfully smug. "Half the time of the game. They get a ten-minute break between halves. To rest and get water and the like."

"Why do they need a break? They could finish the game quicker and more efficiently if they didn't stop. This could be over and done with much sooner. Honestly, do you take this long of a break while in the middle of something? Seems awfully counterproductive. Isn't the goal of the game to end it?"

He glances over to his companion who is pinching her twitching lips so hard, her eyes are glistening a little. He frowns at her. "What?"

Those red lips burst apart in a loud laugh as Irene doubles over, shoulders shaking. "Oh my god," she wheezes, "you are  _adorable_."

"So you've said," Sherlock glares out at the field, deciding adorable in Irene-speak means something entirely different than it's definition.

"Seriously, where is this John bloke?" she cackles, swinging her head back and forth exaggeratingly searching for the boy she's never met. "I need to make sure he gives his boyfriend proper lessons in the sport he plays. You absolutely cannot attend his games saying ridiculous things like that."

"Would you  _shut up_?" Sherlock whips his head around and hisses frantically, searching at the corners of his eyes for any eavesdroppers nearby. "People actually know him here. He isn't my  _boyfriend_. It wouldn't do for anyone to believe  _that_."

The venom in his words is less about Irene's statement and more about how disappointed Sherlock is that it's not accurate.

"Okay, okay," Irene says, still chuckling under her breath. "Sorry, you're right. Oh man, but not knowing what halftime is? Not understanding the point of halftime-" and breaks off into more peels of laughter. "You really-"

Irene's words are cut off by a sudden uproar of the abruptly packed crowd, Sherlock having not noticed the rest of the patrons filing back in to their seats to prepare for the second half of the game to begin. Which is apparently happening now as the fans stand and burst into excited claps and cheers, hooting and hollering and whistling. It's  _anarchy_.

"What is happening?" Sherlock shouts as he turns back to his companion.

Who is already on her feet. Or, her toes to be exact.

"I can't see shit over all these people," she calls back, bouncing on the balls of her feet to peer over the taller men in front of her. "Can you see anything?"

"See what?" Sherlock grumbles as he stands, his height putting his gaze high above those in front of him.

"A tree, I tell you what," Irene grouses beside him and Sherlock smirks.

"Alright, so what am I-"

And for all intents and purposes, the world goes silent.

Well, not the actual world.

Just  _Sherlock's_  world.

There is a long row of jogging blokes racing out onto the field, backs to the audience, dressed in matching uniforms, head to toe in black and white with a splash of red on two of the figures. Black jerseys, black shorts, black knee-socks, and some sort of black shoe on their feet, hints of white lining the collars of their shirts, wrapped in two bands around their biceps and painted across their backs in the form of numbers and last names, a slick white streak down either side of their shorts, finished off with two white circles atop each sock just below the knee. Two boys wear thick red armbands with the bold block C embroidered in white to match their jerseys.

Sherlock hardly sees them.

He hardly sees a single one of the rugby team besides the one.

The one with his back facing Sherlock. The one with shaggy blond hair shifting with every step he takes. The one with the short frame that has that jersey wrapped around it in ways Sherlock has never even imagined, perfectly accentuating that fit, compact body in all the right places. The one with the number 3 laying down his back. The one with WATSON plastered across his shoulder blades in stark white, loud and proud and melting Sherlock's entire being into a small puddle on the dirty metal floor of the bleachers.

And Sherlock can't bloody  _breathe_.

His mouth has turned to absolute cotton, unable to swallow or produce any kind of saliva at all as he attempts to lick his dry lips, his vision blurring slightly as his body heats to a temperature he is certain isn't healthy, sweat forming at his brow and dripping unattractively down the back of his neck. He feels feverish, hotter than he's ever felt, like he might spontaneously combust. Like he might burst into flames this very moment.

And his trousers are tight.

So unbearably  _tight_.

His damp fingers clench together in each of his pockets, gripping the thick cotton of his hoodie because he needs to hold on to something right now as his heart hammers in his chest, blood pumping in his ears at the same tempo. His knees shudder and threaten to give out as the rest of his body begins to hum at the sight of John Watson in his rugby uniform, like that jersey and those shorts and those socks were created to drive Sherlock Holmes absolutely  _mad_.

This is worse than that first day. Worse than the first time Sherlock had laid eyes on his roommate, worse than running out of his room like a lunatic,  _so much worse_.

Sherlock attempts to breathe, attempts to do something besides stare at the back of that blond head, attempts to do something besides stare at that perfectly round arse accentuated in those sinfully snug shorts, attempts to do  _anything_  besides-

"Which one is John?" Irene breaks him free of his spell and the world comes rushing back in around him, loudly, though the symptoms remain in full force, and Sherlock chokes out a ridiculous dry cough, unable to look at the girl. Unable to look away from John. Though it's noiser now. Unpleasant. He'd prefer it if he could be alone during this moment. Alone with John. Alone with John in that three piece uniform in their room, looking like-

"Ah," Irene mutters beside him. "Never mind. Watson is it?"

He should deny it. He should shoot her a glare and huff indignantly and sit back down in his seat and claim to not know what she's talking about.

Instead, he nods.

Because he's a moron.

"Christ almighty, have mercy," Irene murmurs beside him. "He is quite dishy, isn't he?"

Again, he should be annoyed. He should sneer and retort and deny.

He does none of those things.

Because John has just reached the team's bench and about to turn around and Sherlock finds himself panting slightly, licking his dry tongue across his dry bottom lip and biting down in an attempt to calm his eagerness to see that round, beautiful face with those shimmering blue eyes he's been denying himself for  _hours_.

And when John finally turns that uniform-clad body toward the crowd, grinning at a teammate as he does so, fringe sticking up and out on all sides in total chaos, Sherlock is certain he's going to pass out right in the middle of all these people, his pulse elevating to new speeds as he takes in the new angle of his lovely dorm mate.

"Sherlock," a soft voice and a sharp tug of his hoodie finally brings Sherlock to blink. He shakes his head slightly, stumbling just a bit backward and Irene catches him with her palm to his lower back. "Sherlock, you're gaping like an idiot and the rest of the crowd is already seated. Why don't we do the same so no one asks questions about why you're staring like that at one of the players, yeah?"

It takes a long moment for Sherlock to snap out of his reverie, blinking rapidly as he tears his gaze from the boy on the pitch down to the girl at his side, red lips tilted in a concerned but fond smile, eyes soft as they take him in.

And finally, Sherlock has the wherewithal to be himself. He yanks his sleeve out of Irene's grasp and narrows his eyes at her as he pops an irritated eyebrow at her. "I'm fine, thank you," he barks, though he does drop back down into his seat, the heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck as he winces at the pressure in his pants. He looks away from her and out to an empty patch of green grass on the field, attempting to keep his thoughts clear and avoid another mishap like the one he'd just experienced. "And I wasn't staring," he half-heartedly argues. "I was just watching like the rest of the crowd. Isn't that what you're supposed to do at these things?"

Snorting derisively, Irene takes her seat next to him as a whistle blows from somewhere out on the grassy rectangle. "Sure you were," she teases, elbowing his ribs. He tosses a stern look her way and she sits back, tossing her hands up, palms facing him in mock surrender. "Alright, I believe you," she smirks. "Now turn around and watch the game."

Sherlock is all too eager to comply.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After forty agonizing minutes and several embarrassingly not-so-subtle adjustments of his trousers, Sherlock is ready to get the hell out of here. It's been sheer torture watching that slight but powerful body wrapped in black and white dominate the field and all the occupants on with the speed and agility and strength Sherlock hadn't been aware his roommate possessed until today.

John Watson is a bloody force to be reckoned with out on the rugby pitch. John Watson is a bloody force to be reckoned with  _period_.

And watching him sweat and run and jump and slap his mates on the back and smile when they scored for forty unbearable minutes, Sherlock is ready to get  _out_ of here.

Preferably, to a cold shower.

Or maybe a hot shower where he can shamefully wank off the erection he's been sporting for the entire second half of the match, with that number 3 jersey in his fantasy and John's name on his lips.

He has yet to stoop that low in the last week, avoiding touching himself at all costs. Mainly because he'd believed himself better than that.

Clearly, he'd been wrong.

"Well," Irene stands and stretches, startling him from his thoughts, "what did you think?"

Flicking his eyebrows up, Sherlock stares up at her. "Seriously? Do you really want to know?" He thanks his lucky stars that his deflection skills are back on point. He doesn't need to tell Irene that he's learned absolutely nothing about rugby today besides the fact that John Watson looks unspeakably sexy while playing it.

"Ah, on second thought," Irene tips her head to the point, "no. I really don't."

"I thought as much," Sherlock smirks smugly, internally relaxing. "I think I'd better-"

"Sherlock?"

Ah.

And just when he'd been sure the day couldn't possibly get any worse.

"Sherlock, what on _earth_  are _you_  doing here?"

Freezing in place, hoping maybe if he stays completely still this won't actually happen, he flicks his gaze pleadingly to Irene, unsure what exactly she can do for him at this moment but realizing she's probably his only hope.

Irene, however, is not looking at him, but glancing just over his shoulder, most likely at the body the voice that just called his name belongs to.

"Who's that?" she asks, tilting her head toward someone behind Sherlock, and Sherlock scolds himself for believing even for a second that she could have gotten him out of this in some way because _clearly_  she's an  _idiot_.

"Yes, Sherlock, please do tell your friend who I am," Mycroft Holmes' insufferable voice trickles down into his ears and Sherlock cringes so hard his stomach muscles start to ache.

Turning as slowly as he possibly can manage in his seat on the bleachers, Sherlock stares up into the face of his older brother, scowling with all his might as Mycroft looks down his nose at him.

"Irene," Sherlock grounds out from between clenched teeth, "this is my brother, Mycroft."

The sickeningly sweet smile that creeps onto his brother's face makes Sherlock's skin scrawl.

"Oh!" Irene says from behind him, shuffling over to extend a hand. "Nice to meet you, Mycroft. I'm Irene. Irene Adler."

"Pleasure's all mine," he replies with a sturdy but quick shake of the girl's smaller hand. "How do you two know each other?"

"We're lab partners," Irene responds pleasantly, clearly not recognizing the seething tension rolling off Sherlock in waves. "Thought we'd catch the game together today."

"Wonderful," Mycroft says, eyes locking back on Sherlock. "Would you mind excusing us for a moment? I'd like a word with my brother."

"Sure," the brunette girl shrugs, "I've got to get some homework done actually so I'm going to head out. But I'll see you Monday, yeah Sherlock?"

"Mm," Sherlock agrees, nodding in Irene's direction without turning toward her, keeping his gaze on his brother. "Have a nice weekend."

"You too! Thanks for watching the game with me!"

Irene is far too cheery for the occasion.

Mycroft watches as she descends the stairs with the rest of the fans before turning back to Sherlock with an amused eyebrow already raised. "She seems...lovely."

And with that, the staring contest is broken and Sherlock rolls his eyes, their familiar lobbing of insults commencing. "She's just my lab partner," he sneers, for once appreciating that Mycroft may not actually  _know_ -

"I know," Mycroft practically responds to his thoughts, eyebrows raising meaningfully. "I'm fully aware she's not your… _type_."

"Yes,  _thank you_  for pointing that out," Sherlock bites back, standing from his place on the bench to appear more threatening, though his cheeks blaze at the insinuation. "Now if you'll excuse me-"

"Though I do wonder what brought you here of all places," Mycroft pretends to ponder, though the usual gleam in his eye leads Sherlock to believe he's already got the answer, "if it wasn't to impress her."

The silent battle begins again as Mycroft peers back at Sherlock, that irritatingly smug, satisfied look Sherlock knows all too well plastered on his face.

In an attempt to calm his rapidly beating heart, Sherlock tries to convince himself how little Mycroft actually knows. He has no idea about John. He doesn't know Sherlock has spent the better part of forty minutes learning to breathe again just from one glance at that sweaty, fit blond boy. He doesn't know about their shared takeaway nightly, or their bonding or their connection. He doesn't  _know_. He suspects there is something or  _someone_  but he doesn't actually  _know._

Sherlock takes a small comfort in that as he stares back defiantly, eyebrow raised, daring Mycroft to say something more. Regarding each other carefully, Sherlock begins to relax. Mycroft doesn't know anything.

"Myc! Hey, Myc!"

Startling slightly when his older brother looks away from him and down toward the field where the voice calling an unfamiliar name is coming from, Sherlock follows his gaze with a frown. Who the hell is Myc? And why would Mycroft concern himself finding out?

And all his questions come grinding to a brutal halt as Sherlock lays eyes on Greg Lestrade grinning up at them, thick red bag slung over his shoulder, smiling dopily up at the man Sherlock had only recently been fantasizing about killing.

And when Sherlock's stomach bottoms out, all the confidence that Mycroft hadn't known what was going on with him dissipating in the span of single breath, it's not at the sight of his brother's boyfriend smiling happily up at them.

It's at the sight of John Watson right by his side, matching bag strapped across his chest, still clad in his rugby kit, blond fringe still mashed this way and that from the sweat and dirt that had surely gotten into it during the game.

And Sherlock's breath catches harshly in his throat on a soft gurgle that he's sure Mycroft didn't miss. Because John is staring right back at him, ocean-deep eyes blinking up at him, pink lips corked at one side and parted in a surprised grin. "Hey!" he calls to Sherlock, flicking a hand up in a wave. "You made it!"

A small,  _infuriating_  hum of what can only be construed as understanding comes from the man beside him and Sherlock has the very real urge to punch his smug brother right in the mouth.

But before he can act on his desire, the two rugby players are making their way up the bleacher steps. And toward them.

"Well, fancy meeting you here," Greg teases, dropping a wink at his boyfriend as he reaches for him, lacing his fingers with Mycroft's and planting a kiss on his cheek.

"Hardly," the elder Holmes retorts, though Sherlock turns just in time to catch a faint pink tint Mycroft's face, "of course I'd be here to see you play."

Beaming, Greg takes a small step forward, and Sherlock only registers that he's in fact going in for a full on smacker right on the lips of his brother, and is just about to cringe or shout or spin around and bolt before he has to witness it, when a harsh throat clear breaks the moment and the three of them turn to the blond boy staring pointedly at his rugby captain.

"Yeah, as lovely as it is to watch you two ogle each other," John Watson huffs, though the corners of his lip curve with teasing, "I'm starving. So could we maybe get the introductions over with and go grab a bite?"

It takes all the effort he's got left not to grin at his roommate as Sherlock listens to Greg's laugh in reply. John Watson does love his food.

"Oh right," Greg chuckles, glancing back over to the man whose hand he's still holding. "Mycroft, this is John Watson, one of our newbies on the team this year."

Seeing as his fingers are currently occupied, Mycroft opts to nod his head in greeting. "Nice to meet you, John," he replies, calculating eyes already tracing along John's form, learning all his secrets in one glance. Sherlock now must resist the urge to stomp on his foot and bark at him to leave his poor John alone.

 _His_ John.

Mentally slapping a hand to his forehead, Sherlock exhales sharply. Yeah, he's officially a nutter.

"Good to finally meet you," John smiles winningly. "I've been curious to find out who exactly thought taking on this tosser full-time was a good idea." He points a thumb at his teammate and Greg laughs.

"Yes, he is something, isn't he?" Mycroft agrees, eyes softening around the edges with a glance to his significant other while Sherlock rolls his, before his gaze snaps back to the short blond. "And I understand you're rooming with my brother this term as well?"

"Right," John nods happily, tossing a grin in Sherlock's direction and the curly-haired boy's stomach does a double-backflip. "He is  _also_ quite something."

Cheeks burning immediately, Sherlock drops his gaze and bites down hard on the inside of his lip, refusing the let his sibling see exactly what type of affect John Watson has on him.

Which proves to be useless as Mycroft replies with a soft hum of agreement, that single sound confirming all his younger brother's greatest fears.

Mycroft knows.

"Well, now that that's out of the way," Greg breaks the beat of silence immediately, "I hate to break this to you but Myc and I have got plans already so we're going to skip the bite. Sorry, mate."

"Yeah, on second thought I think I'd rather you go make gooey eyes at each other somewhere we don't have to witness it," John laughs, glancing at Sherlock as though they're both in on the joke. The grin can't be fought this time and the genius gives in.

Something in those blue eyes looking back at him twinkle and a small, glowing ember lodges itself in the center of Sherlock's chest.

"Well, it's been a pleasure," Mycroft nods at John, then turns to his brother with a raised eyebrow. "Sherlock," he regards, "I'll be in touch."

"Of course you will," Holmes the younger sneers back. "Have a  _wonderful_  time."

"We plan to," his brother bites back with a smirk.

And with a slap on the back and another knowing brow raise, Mycroft and Greg are gone and John turns back to his roommate with a grin, the blue in his eyes deepening ever so slightly when he's happy. "Guess it's just you and me tonight, then. What do you think? Chinese or Italian?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING!! We're having a constant lovefest over at my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come say hello!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _As ever, a truly special THANK YOU to ishaveforsherl, thank you so much for your thoughts and ideas and support and love, I truly couldn't do this without you my darling!!!_  

_**How fast does wool burn?** _

_No idea. Aren't you the genius here?_

_**Let me be more specific: How fast does grey wool burn?** _

_Still no idea._

_**Pity. I was hoping you'd know so I wouldn't have to test my theory.** _

_What theory?_

_Sherlock?_

_Hello?_

_Sherlock, are you burning my grey jumper?_

_**I won't have to if you knew the answer.** _

_You can't burn my jumpers!_

_**Lift the experiment ban and I won't have to.** _

_Oh for godsake, that's what this is about?_

_**If you want to save your jumpers, you'll comply.** _

_You're seriously threatening me right now?_

_**No, just offering a suggestion.** _

_This is blackmail._

_**It's not.** _

_It is._

_**Over a silly jumper? Please.** _

_Do not burn anything, Sherlock._

_**Or what?** _

_Or I'll kick your skinny arse out of our room so quick, you won't know what happened._

_**I'm fairly certain I'd know what happened.** _

_No, I'm faster than lightning._

_**That's impossible.** _

_Try me._

_**You wouldn't.** _

_Wouldn't I?_

_**If I were gone, who would you feed every night?** _

_I'd fine someone new. Someone nicer who leaves my innocent jumpers alone._

_**Dull.** _

_Entirely, but at least my clothing would be safe._

_**Duller.** _

_If you'd leave my things alone, you could stay and keep me from a very dull life._

_**I'll take it under advisement.** _

_See that you do. Indian?_

_**Not hungry.** _

_Indian it is, then._

_**Don't you have a ball to chase?** _

A grin breaks out on John's face as he stares down at his mobile, knowing full well he should be annoyed at his roommate and simply being unable to, though he is a bit concerned about his harmless jumper currently in the hands of the madman. He supposes if the worst thing that happens while he's at practice is that he's down one item of clothing when he returns to their shared room, he should consider it a win. He may be a bit relieved as well, seeing as he hasn't seen or heard from Sherlock all day today, and it's always a bit of a relief to get a text message from him.

It also brightens John's entire day, if he's being honest. A text from Sherlock Holmes might as well be an A on a paper for how good it makes him feel. Just the fact that Sherlock is maybe possibly thinking about him while he's not there makes John's heart practically soar into the sky.

"Oi, quit smiling at your phone and get your arse on the field, Watson!" Greg calls from the middle of pitch where he stands surrounded by the rest of the team in various stages of stretching preparing for practice, arms crossed in mock irritation.

Snorting, John tosses his mobile into his bag and jogs out toward them, finding he's still unable to fight the grin. "Bugger off," he laughs, "I was just finishing a text."

"See, I knew this day would come," Mike raises his gaze from where he's stretching out his hamstrings, shaking his head at John with a resigned sigh. "I knew one day that boyfriend of yours would have you good and whipped and you wouldn't even be able to do something as innocent as practice rugby without checking in with him first."

"He's _not_  my –" John starts to protest but Paul cuts him off.

"Our poor Johnny," he says with a clap on the back and a Mike-mirrored sympathetic close-mouthed smile of his own. "Honestly, should you even be playing a contact sport right now? Can you focus on anything besides that pretty-boy roommate of yours?"

"I'm  _fine_ , I don't need-"

"I mean, I hear this Sherlock bloke is quite brilliant," Mike interrupts, rising from his folded position and blinking with insincere concern. "Who knows  _what_  he gets up to when you're away."

"Oh for godsake-"

"In fact, I think we'd better meet him," Paul announces with a nod around at the rest of the boys in various seated and standing positions. "What do you think, boys? Do we need to officially meet the boy who's captured our Johnny's heart so spectacularly? Give him a little talking to? See what he's all about? Deem him  _worthy_  of our mate here?"

A murmur of agreement races across the group, shoulders shrugging and heads nodding, a collective understanding that Sherlock Holmes is important and needs to be assessed by the team.

The color in John's face promptly drains from their capillaries, leaving his cheeks ghostly pale in a state of sheer terror. Yes,  _of course_ he wants Sherlock to officially meet the team, _of course_ he wants the team to see in Sherlock what he does… but they aren't  _actually_ dating. As much as his wankers of teammates may think they are, as much as it may feel like it after three full weeks of shared takeaway and late-night conversations lasting into the late hours of the morning, as much as John  _wishes_ they were… they're not. They aren't together. They spend little time together outside the four walls of their shared dorm room, with the exception of the curly-haired boy showing up unexpectedly to the scrimmage a few weeks ago, cheeks as red as the sweatshirt he'd been wearing, snug jeans fitted around that damned arse, making John's mouth water immediately upon seeing it. It had been so unexpected seeing him there, John was certain he hadn't been able to keep the giddy grin from his face as he'd locked eyes with grey irises that he swore had glittered back at him, certain he hadn't been able to keep his gaze from wandering appreciatively down his roommate's slender form, looking ridiculously posh for someone sporting a red hoodie and jeans, tousled curls fussing in the wind like a fucking  _supermodel_.

The way Sherlock had looked at him that day still haunts John. He couldn't decipher that look, not then and not now. He has no idea what it means. All he knows is that boy genius was looking at him with those gorgeous eyes in a way he'd never seen before, a sharp, searing gaze, like John was… he doesn't even have a word for it. All he knows is the first time he'd locked eyes with Sherlock Holmes outside of their shared dorm room, it had been positively  _electrifying_ , lighting up every single nerve in John's body like fireworks going off. It had flipped some switch, answered some unasked question, shifted some unseen connection in their relationship, and John cannot stop thinking about it.

But besides that, they haven't spent a single moment together outside of their room.

In fact, Sherlock seems adamant on keeping it that way. Keeping their friendship hidden from prying eyes. On more than one occasion John has wondered if Sherlock is actually ashamed to know him for how very intensely he declines invitations to do anything besides sit in their room and eat together.

If it weren't for the sole fact that the curly-haired boy was there every single night, perched at his desk with his nose in a book or a paper or his laptop pretending he wasn't waiting for his nightly dinners John provided, the blond boy would wonder if Sherlock liked him at all. Well that, and the conversations they had over said dinners, ranging all over the map for topics. John knows they are close. Closer than he'd ever openly acknowledge for fear of somehow damaging it, because it's so unbelievably fragile. He can feel it. He can feel how shaky this thing they have is. Maybe it's from the constant denials of more interactions outside of their room. Maybe it's the way Sherlock still seems a bit skittish around John, still a bit unsure of this thing they have, this thing John would prefer to call a friendship if he was certain it wouldn't make Sherlock uncomfortable. Which he isn't.

Or maybe it's the fear. The fear of John's own bloody  _feelings_ , the feelings he's been unfortunately developing since day one, since the moment he'd laid eyes on that gorgeous boy. The fear that those feelings are solidifying with each passing day, rising in his chest, constantly reminding him that this thing, this maybe-possibly-friendship thing he has with Sherlock Holmes is something he'd like to turn into a real thing, a thing where it's no longer a maybe-possibly-friendship but a maybe-possibly-more-than-friendship and John is  _terrified_ , so damn terrified because he can't get a read on Sherlock, or well, he can but it's different all the time, never constant, never proving anything that Sherlock feels one way or the other about him, if Sherlock even likes him, but then why did he come to the scrimmage, and why is he there every night for dinner, but he won't leave the room to spend any time with John and so why-

Fuck.

Bloody  _fuck_.

He's losing it.

He's driving himself completely insane.

Or Sherlock is.

He doesn't even know.

All he knows is this is his life now. Constant wheels turning, questioning every move, wondering every second he's away from Sherlock, analyzing all of their conversations and interactions over and over, wishing he could know, wishing he could just pinpoint exactly what is going on, where Sherlock stands with him, where this relationship stands because it doesn't feel like they're just roommates and it doesn't feel like they're just friends.

But what if it's just John?

What if it's just John running circles inside his head, spinning his wheels over and over again over nothing? What if Sherlock Holmes thinks nothing more of him than simply a human body that sleeps in his room?

Christ, John has no idea. He has no idea and it's driving him mad.

And the thought of his team wanting to throw a wrench into this fragile relationship has John coming over a bit uneasy. He'd thought his mates understood how delicate this situation is. How reluctant Sherlock is about any sort of contact with them for still unknown reasons. How much John doesn't want to deter their situation in any way. How desperate John is not to  _fuck this up_  with his roommate.

He hadn't said any of this in explicit terms to his team but he was certain it had been pretty heavily implied.

Tossing a frantic glance to the one person he's hoping may actually be able to help, John's pleading gaze lands on Greg Lestrade's shaking form, palm clasped over his mouth, eyes crinkled slightly as his face reddens, bent over at the middle.

"Oh, you fuckers," John huffs, and just like that the team bursts into laughter as Mike slaps him on the back and jostles him good-naturedly.

"We so had you," he cries between giggles, clutching John's shoulder for support. "We  _so_   _had_  you!"

"Yeah, yeah you had me alright," the blond shrugs him off, fighting off a grin of his own. Over the weeks of practice, these boys have become like family to him. He can't help but appreciate a little jabbing here and there, feeling rather accepted in this group of kind gentlemen he'd stumbled upon. Even if they are a bunch of tossers, all still hooting and hollering over their shared joke at his expense.

"Look, Johnny, we  _do_  want to meet Sherlock, you know,  _officially_  and all," Paul elbows him, still chuckling. "But we won't force it on you. We aren't  _that_ heartless."

"But we  _do_  want to meet him," Mike emphasizes, lips still twitching. "I've heard he's completely mad and I could use a little mad in my life, couldn't I, Greg?"

"Oh, absolutely," their captain grins, face beet-red from laughing. "He's a complete nutter but definitely worth meeting. I mean he's not the friendliest of guys but… I dunno, he's done remarkably well with you, John."

"I- really?" John blinks, something warm expanding in his chest and pressing against his ribcage at that simple statement. The rest of the team takes off on a jog around the field, laughter finally fading and John lines up beside Greg, taking up the rear to continue their conversation.

"Oh yeah," Greg nods, taking off at a slow pace as they follow their teammates, "I mean, you know, he's not the easiest person to deal with. You said he did that whole 'let me tell you a bunch of shit about yourself I shouldn't know' thing to you, didn't he?"

"Yup," John tips his head in acknowledgement.

"It's a Holmes' trick," Greg laughs with a shrug. "They're completely brilliant, both Mycroft and Sherlock. Like, scary smart. Like attending the poshest of public schools and getting the highest marks in each of their classes smart. But I think Myc has decided to handle it a little differently than Sherlock has. He's less… abrasive than his baby brother. An equal show-off but a bit more interested in getting along with 'ordinary' people as he so lovingly puts it, whereas Sherlock has 'no time for idiots.' Quite tactful, the Holmes' brothers."

"Well, that I  _did_  know," John nods, huffing a laugh, "though I have no idea why he puts up with me. Probably because I feed him every night."

"Probably," Greg agrees with a chuckle. His eyes soften a bit as he says, "But I think it's more than that. I mean, Sherlock doesn't like anyone. Seriously, anyone. At all. Poor kid didn't have any friends in secondary school from what Myc tells me."

That isn't exactly surprising but John's heart still sinks to his stomach imagining a lonely Sherlock Holmes roaming the halls of a school no one cared about him in. "Yeah I sort of guessed," John replies sadly. "I mean, he doesn't seem to do much besides school stuff."

Flicking his eyebrows up, Greg shakes his head slightly as they round the corner of the pitch. "It's sad, right? Myc says no one understood him at that age; said kids couldn't wrap their small minds around his vast intelligence, or more likely didn't want to. I mean can you imagine Sherlock spouting off to some unassuming bloke about how he knew he'd cheated on his girlfriend based on the shirt he was wearing? Teenage boys wouldn't take kindly to that I don't think. Myc said there were lots of bloody noses and trips to the headmaster's office. He's his guardian, you know. They don't have parents."

That gives John a start. "What?"

"You didn't know?" Greg turns slightly to raise an eyebrow for a moment before shaking his head. "Ah, actually makes sense. Sherlock wouldn't have told you I guess. But you met Mrs. Hudson, didn't you?"

"Yes," John mutters, attempting to breath against the constricting bands wrapping tightly around his lungs. He should have known this about Sherlock. He should have seen it like Sherlock sees everything. He should have been better to Sherlock these past few weeks. Christ, whinging to himself about his ridiculous crush, pining like some lovesick idiot while the boy he adores lives a lonely, parentless, friendless life. His blood begins to simmer under his skin as he rages internally at himself. What a fucking idiot he's been.

"She's been wonderful," Greg continues, "a godsend really, according to Myc. After their parents died, it's pretty much just been the three of them."

"How did they…you know," John ventures, already feeling the sick twist of guilt for even asking the question.

"Plane crash, if you can believe that," Greg replies with a sad nod. "I guess their father was a pilot and they'd gotten caught in a storm on one of their small two-seater planes. I dunno all the ins and outs, Myc really doesn't talk about it much."

"Do you know when it was?"

"Not sure, but I think around the time Mycroft was set to start university. It's been a good few years since it happened. Like five or six I think? But like I said, he really doesn't have much to say about it. I'm not sure they were particularly close."

"Hm," John hums in reply, feeling slightly queasy at the influx of information.

"Myc says it's been relatively easy, all things considered," Greg continues, clearly missing John's discomfort. "They still live in this giant house their parents owned and I'm pretty sure they both received a pretty big inheritance. They kept the staff on and Mrs. Hudson still lives there with Myc. I dunno, it's all shitty, really."

"Mhm," John agrees because it is shitty and he _feels_  shitty for it and for how he's been and he wants this practice to be over as soon as possible so he can go and see Sherlock and start being a real friend and not some pathetic sod going all starry-eyed every time he looks at him.

"Anyway, if you ask me," Greg goes on, "I'd say Mycroft is a bit relieved to have Sherlock in uni. More of a chance for him to branch out and find people to accept him and less of a chance to get a good pummeling, you know?"

"Mm," John hums half-heartedly, decidedly less interested in hearing about Sherlock's painful teenage years. No wonder he'd been reluctant to spend any time with John's teammates. He was probably certain they'd be cruel. Everyone else in Sherlock's life clearly had been. And he didn't have any fucking parents to help. John could relate to being parentless, hell he was practically parentless himself, but John had always been lucky enough to be liked in school. He'd never had issues with friendships or bullies, always the bloke most people liked immediately. It was easy for him.

It clearly isn't as easy for Sherlock.

And that simply isn't okay.

Clenching his fists as he picks up his pace, John makes a silent vow to land a solid fist in the face of anyone that has ever hurt Sherlock, physically or otherwise, if they ever have the misfortune of crossing his path, while simultaneously planning his strategy to become a better friend to his roommate.

He stays silent the rest of the warm-up and if he sprints a bit too hard and yells a bit too loudly and tackles a little too aggressively throughout the rest of practice, he decides to chalk it up to excess of energy and not unnatural anger lurking beneath his skin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Good practice, Johnny," Mike grins at him with a slap on the back as he slings his bag over his shoulder. "See you tonight at Paul's?"

"Maybe," John nods with a forced smile of his own, having no intention whatsoever of going to Paul's to indulge in some heavy drinking with his mates. Not tonight. Not when a snarky little prodigy teen is waiting for him back in their room, waiting for John to come home with food and conversation. Waiting for John to come back to be his friend, and not the completely gone lunatic he's been.

And John is all too eager to get home to him.

He watches as his friends file off the field, laughing and jostling each other as they go, not a care in the world, completely unaware of their teammate lingering uneasily at their bench, completely unsure of what to do with himself.

Practice had helped calm him a bit, helped ease the rush of bitter fury he'd experienced upon finding out that Sherlock is antisocial not because he doesn't want to do anything outside of the room with John but because he's most likely  _afraid_  to spend time with John's friends, afraid of what will happen, afraid of how they'll treat him.

And it makes everything in John's body ache not to run back to their dorm immediately, wrap Sherlock in his arms and never let him go again. He's wanted to do that on so many occasions; so many times he's dreamt of touching Sherlock like that, like a lover would. It's not new, this feeling, but it's different this time. It's less about the need to touch Sherlock, which he has often, and more about the need to protect him. To show him how important he is. Show him how wonderful he is.

Which is why he lingers now. He has no idea how to face Sherlock now, knowing what he knows, without doing something he'll regret. He needs to be his friend now. He  _needs_  to be. He can't be having these urges to hold and caress and protect because he has no right and because that isn't what Sherlock needs right now. The boy is almost totally alone in this world and he needs a friend. John needs to be there for him.

Sighing heavily and slinging his bag over his shoulder, shaking himself in the process, John begins making his way across the field. There isn't anything he can do for Past Sherlock anyway, so he might as well make up for it now and be a great friend to the boy. He deserves that, that's for certain. And John can do that. John  _will_ do that.

"John Watson," a firm voice comes from his left, startling John free from his thoughts and back into the real world, whipping toward the sound of his own name.

Mycroft Holmes stands strong and important beside an idling black limousine car in the empty parking lot next to the field, leaning on a tan bamboo handle of a long, neatly folded umbrella, looking quite professional in a three-piece pinstriped suite, the chain of a pocket watch dangling just so from the buttons of his vest. He does actually look the part of the British government quite perfectly, drawing an uneasy prickle along the back of John's neck as Sherlock's words ring in his ears.

"Uh-…hi?" John ventures, suddenly feeling severely out of his depth as though he's missed something quite significant. Like there is some obvious reason for Mycroft's presence.

Which of course there is.

Mentally whacking himself in the forehead at his own stupidity, John tosses a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing back toward the field. "Greg should be over in a minute," he attempts to smile, the bell of the panic alarm in his head easing as he realizes Mycroft isn't here for him at all, obviously. Why would he be? He certainly isn't aware of John's inner turmoil over his baby brother.

John hopes, at least.

Raising a sleek eyebrow, the condescension rolling off him in waves, Mycroft tilts his head ever so slightly. "I'm actually not here to see Gregory today," he says, his tone falsely pleasant. "I came to see you."

The sharp stab of panic is immediate as John's brows shoot upward. "Me?"

"Would you join me for a quick ride?" Mycroft states more than asks with a tilt of his head toward the vehicle behind him, looking down his nose at the short blond. "I thought we could have a brief chat."

Pinching his eyebrows together, John cocks his head in confusion. "About what?" He asks, shifting his bag slightly on his shoulder as his stomach flutters nervously.

"About Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft replies, eyes narrowing slightly. When John doesn't move, he sighs and pulls open the car door. "Please," he says politely. "There are… things that need to be discussed."

"What things?" John asks, but his feet are already carrying him to the door, Greg's words still rattling around in his head, Sherlock with a bloody nose, Sherlock in the Headmaster's office, Sherlock suspended-

"Things one should know about when rooming with my little brother," Mycroft mutters as John slides into the backseat, Mycroft following along behind and gliding into the seat with similar grace as Sherlock, John notes, the car much roomier inside than John had originally thought it would be. He's never been in a limo before. Although besides the space, this one is rather unimpressive with just a square of backseats outlining the interior, no minibar or televisions like those he'd seen in movies. He shifts to sit along the further side of the half-square so he can look almost directly at Mycroft without straining his neck.

"So," John says as he glances around his surroundings, hands settling on his knees. "What's all this about then?"

Mycroft is eyeing him carefully, scrutinizing his every move, every twitch. John shrinks slightly beneath the gaze, entirely unsure how to react as the silence stretches out between them uncomfortably. He fidgets slightly in his seat, staring stupidly back at the clearly important man sitting across from him.

Assessing eyes still flicking between the blond's, Mycroft says, "What are your intentions with Sherlock Holmes?"

John blinks. "Um. I intend to live with him."

A heavy sigh escapes the lips of the posh gentleman across from him, eyes rolling in the process. "Yes, I am aware of that fact, thank you," Mycroft clips, "but it's come to my attention that you've become rather… close over the last few weeks. Should I expect a happy announcement soon?"

As the blood drains from John's face, another, more vicious emotion roils through him along with the terror that Mycroft may know exactly what's going on inside John's head; anger. Downright rage that this pompous arse thinks he can corner John and practically accuse him of… well, he's not quite sure, exactly. Accuse him of dating Sherlock? Of having a crush on Sherlock? Whatever it is Mycroft is implying, he sure seems to be certain of himself.

Which pisses John off all the more.

"I could be wrong," John seethes through clenched teeth, "but I think that's none of your business."

It's his best defense, seeing as _he_  has no idea what's going on. Why should it be any business of Mycroft's?

"It could be," Mycroft smiles pleasantly.

"No," John growls back, "it  _really_  couldn't."

Sitting back slightly in his seat, Mycroft evaluates him carefully, gaze trailing up and down his form, not unlike Sherlock's blazing stare, although these eyes don't hold a candle to those of his roommate's. Besides, while he can't deny that he somewhat enjoys being under the look of Holmes the younger, he could do without it from the elder.

"You've become friendly," Mycroft states plainly.

It takes John a great effort to acknowledge the point when he doesn't want to give an ounce of a reaction to this man. "We have," he agrees with a curt nod. "Is that so shocking?"

"You've met him," Mycroft replies coolly. "How many friends do you imagine he has?"

That makes something flip unpleasantly in John's belly, hitting just close enough to the facts he'd gotten only an hour earlier about Sherlock's past and his throat tightens slightly. "What is it that you want, exactly?" he practically barks. "Do you actually care or are you just nosey?"

He has no idea what the Holmes brother's relationship is, but he has a sneaky feeling that it's not a great one judging by the reaction Sherlock has at the mention of his brother, or the way he'd stared daggers into him at the game only weeks prior.

"If you do decided to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft continues, ignoring John's angry tone, "I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to…  _ease_  your way."

And just before John can reply, can even think what on earth his reply should be, can even think to  _blink_ , the door beside him is flying open again and a familiar body is making its way into the vehicle with absolutely no elegance, the smell of the wet grass from the rugby pitch filling the interior as the figure hurries inside.

" _Nope_ ," Greg Lestrade barks out on a tight breath as he shuffles across the space between John's legs and Mycroft's umbrella, "nope nope  _nope_ , absolutely  _not_." He spins rather efficiently on a heel and falls back into the seat beside his rather furious-looking boyfriend, slapping a hand to Mycroft's knee and shooting him a pinched smile. "I don't think so, my love," he glares smugly.

"What?" Mycroft replies, attempting to look innocent and failing miserably. "I was just-"

"Trying to intimidate Johnny here?" Greg cuts him off. "Scare him into telling you all of Sherlock's secrets? Nice try."

" _What_?" John snaps but neither man seems to be listening to him.

"No," Mycroft mumbles, dropping his gaze and fidgeting slightly with guilt, "I was just going to ask him how things were going rooming with Sherlock."

"Oh, really?" Greg replies dubiously, and Mycroft somehow seems smaller under the glare. "That's  _all_  you were going to ask? No talk of  _information_? No discussion of  _money_?"

"He asked what my intentions were," John interrupts, crossing his arms and shooting a pointed glower at Mycroft a bit childishly but now he has back-up that Holmes the elder will listen to and John wouldn't be cowed to this nonsense. " _And_ he was offering me money before you stormed in here."

"Ah," Greg nods in understanding toward John, then back to Mycroft with a fixed brow raise. "And what does John's 'intentions' have to do with  _you_ , exactly?"

"They are  _living together_ , Gregory," Mycroft argues back, though his demeanor is much softer, much more petulant than when John first saw him standing beside the car. "I can't have some  _rugby_   _player_  shagging my baby brother simply because they occupy the same-"

"What's wrong with a rugby player?" Greg snaps back just as John shouts " _Excuse me_  but I am  _not_ shagging him!"

"And what if he hurts him?" Mycroft continues, ignoring them both. "What if he finds other friends and leaves? Sherlock doesn't understand these things; friendships, relationships. You know this. He won't know what to do if John ever leaves or tires of him, he won't be able to handle it. I was simply offering an incentive for John to stay, you see? Keep Sherlock busy with-"

"Okay, I've heard about enough, thanks," John bites out, shifting forward to throw his elbow to his knee and point a finger at this posh bastard. "First and foremost, Sherlock and I are not shagging, not that it's any business of yours but I'd like to make that quite clear on my end. Second of all, I actually like Sherlock. We get on well, we live together just fine and yes I would consider us friends. I don't need payment to stick around and I certainly won't be taking any money from someone who thinks they need to pay a person to be friends with Sherlock Holmes. So you can kindly go fuck yourself, thanks, because I won't have anymore talk of my friendship with Sherlock being funded, for godsake."

Greg whips his head around to smirk at his boyfriend as John heaves a breath from his angry monologue. "See?" He says smugly. "Told you, you have nothing to worry about."

" _Of course_  I have something to worry about," Mycroft snarls back, "I have Sherlock Holmes to worry about. Constantly."

"Well, he's in good hands with John," Greg says, a bit kinder than before, tossing a nod to his teammate.

"Oh for godsake, I'm not his bloody keeper," John rolls his eyes, ignoring the warmth blooming in his chest as he considers the fact that he essentially just vowed to take care of Sherlock. Because he does want that. He does want to take care of Sherlock so much, even as he practically denies his feelings to Sherlock's brother.

"No, but you are his friend," Greg amends with a soft smile. "Myc just wants to make sure he's alright."

"He'll be alright with me," John snaps, still irked by this entire conversation, "now if you'll excuse me, I need to go pick up dinner and get back to my room." Without waiting for a reply, John dives for the door, practically throwing it open as he crawls out, irritation prickling his skin like wildfire.

"John," Mycroft calls before John can slam the door closed, tossing out his umbrella to keep it propped open. "I do apologize if I stepped over a line but you must understand where I'm coming from. Having my brother away from home has been… difficult. He's my responsibility and I only wish to see him happy."

Frustration waning, John's heart softens slightly at the words of an older brother looking out for his sibling, the only remaining family he has. He takes in dark eyes staring up at him from inside the car and sees, for the first time since the start of this discussion, the concerned face of a worried brother.

Which is gone in the blink of an eye as Mycroft's features darken rapidly, narrowing in on John like a predator to its prey, no longer the soft, gentle boy but the strong, powerful man looking out for his family and no one else. "But make no mistake, John," he practically growls, "if you so much as hurt a single strand of hair on Sherlock's head, I will personally-"

"Jesus Christ,  _fuck off_ ," John barks, _beyond_  patience, giving one swift shove to the door, taking great satisfaction in watching Mycroft scramble to pull his umbrella out of the way as the door slams in his face.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The anger burning in his throat still hasn't dissipated as he bangs open the door to his dorm room, chest heaving slightly with unrelenting rage from that ridiculous conversation he'd just been forced to have. He takes stock of his room, eyes trailing over the small area just as a movement catches his eye and his gaze lands on dark curly hair.

Swiveling in his chair, feet kicked up on the bed, a violin of all things propped in his lap as he plucks the strings, Sherlock Holmes raises an eyebrow at his panting roommate and says, "You're lucky you arrived now. I was just about to put a flame to that hideous jumper of yours," in the haughtiest tone he can manage.

"And where the fuck have you been all day?" John barks, ignoring Sherlock's teasing because he's still fucking furious from all the crap that's gone on today, from not seeing or hearing from Sherlock until minutes before practice, to finding out the boy he has a rapidly strengthening crush on not only didn't have any parents but also had a horrible high school experience, to that goddamn conversation he'd had with said boy's older brother, John can't seem to get his head on straight, the fury of all this new knowledge twisting him up in knots.

Frowning, Sherlock's eyes run all over him in one swift motion. "I was… I was in the library," he says distractedly, as he gleans as much information from John's clothes and posture and facial expressions as he can, "doing a project with Irene and Victor." He blinks up into John's eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Your brother is a fucking prick," John growls, throwing his bag on the floor under his bed with a huff, barely registering anything Sherlock had just said. "A complete and total wanker."

"My brother? What did my-"

Until he does.

"Who is Victor?" John suddenly whips his head around, brain finally pushing passed the boiling rage and processing what Sherlock had just said. Victor? John is positive Sherlock has never mentioned any Victor until now.

"What?" Sherlock snaps his own eyes up, blinking in confusion.

"You said you were with some Victor in the library," John attempts a nonchalant tone and fails miserably.

"Oh," Sherlock shakes his slightly as if jarred by the question and just now recovering. "Lab partner. One of them anyway. We're doing a group project in Chemistry in groups of threes which is so idiotic, don't even get me started."

"Oh," John visibly relaxes, Sherlock's clipped tone already making him feel better that this Victor fellow isn't anyone significant. Thank god. "Okay."

"So? What's this about my brother, then?" Sherlock waves a hand for him to continue, features already slightly pinched in preparation to be properly irritated with his sibling.

"Right," John replies with a nod, anger anew at the memory, "Your brother is a right prat. He cornered me after practice to question me about my 'association' with you."

The color that normally sits high in Sherlock's cheeks promptly drains away, his already pale face somehow going whiter. "What?"

"Yup," John replies, popping the 'p' and scrubbing a hand down his face. "Said he wanted to know what my intentions were."

"Oh for godsake," Sherlock growls under his breath. "Meddling, sodding… did he offer you money?"

John falters slightly. He wasn't going to tell Sherlock that particular piece but… "Yes," he replies with a slow nod, "but I didn't take it or anything," he adds hastily. "I would never do that to you."

That last part slipped out.

John hadn't meant to say that.

Fuck.

Sherlock blinks back at him for a moment before the pink finds its way back into his cheeks, rapidly darkening his face into a full blush, the air around them suddenly charged.

And John can't look away.

Christ, he  _loves_  it when Sherlock blushes.

Clearing his throat harshly, the curly-haired boy tears his gaze away and mumbles, "Yes, well. Thank you."

"You're welcome," John's throat is suddenly dry as the silence stretches between them.

Until Sherlock's eyes wander back to John's, a slow smile sneaking onto his lips. "Pity, though," he smirks, "we could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

He can't help it. The laugh slips from his lips before he can stop it, barking out sharply at his ridiculous roommate, grinning as Sherlock grins right back. "I'll try to remember that for next time," John giggles, shaking his head fondly at that beautiful boy sitting at his desk chair. "Anyway, I need to go grab dinner still, is Indian still-"

Three sharp knocks on their dorm door cut his words off in the middle of his sentence, startling both roommates. No one ever comes to their room.

"I swear to god if that's your brother…" John mumbles, making his way back toward the exit of their room.

"It's not," Sherlock shakes his head, eyeing the door suspiciously. "He wouldn't have knocked."

Frowning, John glances back at Sherlock, who shrugs and nods encouragingly to the door, just as curious as John is. He nods back, turns around and pulls the door open.

Only to find Greg Lestrade fidgeting on the other side.

"Jesus," John breathes, "Are you everywhere now?"

"I'm so sorry, mate," Greg starts, barging right in without an invitation. "About Mycroft, I'm so sorry. That wasn't okay at all what he did." He turns to Sherlock with a pleading gaze. "Really, you two, I am so sorry. His behavior was unacceptable."

"I'm surprised that  _you're_  surprised by his behavior," Sherlock replies coolly with a raised brow. "You choose to date that vile human being, don't you know by now who and what he is? It can't honestly be that shocking that he would pull such a stunt and-"

"Alright, alright, I get it," Greg waves him off with a click of his hand, nodding. "It's not that it's surprising, I was just hoping I would be there to stop him when he acted."

"Well, technically you were there," John replies thoughtfully.

"Not soon enough," Greg shakes his head. "Not in time before he made a complete tosser out of himself."

"Oh, you couldn't have stopped that had your life depended on it," Sherlock mutters, turning back to his laptop. "No one can keep Mycroft from acting like a-"

"Enough, alright?" Greg bites back. "I get it. My boyfriend can act like a real dick sometimes. I just wanted to apologize on his behalf and see if you guys wanted to grab drinks at Paul's with me. I feel like I owe you both after that."

"No thank you," Sherlock replies immediately, suddenly very interested in typing furiously away on his laptop.

Shifting his weight, John suddenly feels torn. A drink with friends sounds great right about now after the day he's had, but there is no way in hell he's leaving Sherlock here alone. The only person he wants to be with tonight is Sherlock and if that means foregoing drinks, then that's exactly what he'll do.

"Yeah, sorry mate, I think we're in for the night," John shrugs, trying not to notice the fumbling of Sherlock's key strokes over some part of John's sentence he can't quite narrow down.

Scolding himself, John resolutely ignores the rising questions nagging at the back of his mind. No. No absolutely not. This is  _exactly_  the kind of crap he can no longer be doing. Analyze, attempt to decipher every meaningless thing that happens between him and his roommate. No more of that. They are  _friends_. They need to be  _just_ friends.

For Sherlock.

"Oh come on," Greg grins, not deterred one bit. "You can't live in this room forever, you know."

"Sure we can," Sherlock counters, "Or I can, anyway. I have a computer, John brings food, what more do I need?"

"Human interaction," Greg teases.

"I interacted with people just this afternoon," Sherlock replies, still typing away at his keyboard. "And I attend class. I don't need to go to parties to be social."

"Okay, well how about this, then," Greg leans back against John's bedframe, arms crossed over his chest. "Imagine exactly how furious your brother would be if he found out that not only did you attend a party with that  _unsavory_  roommate of yours-"

John snorts, chuckling as Sherlock shoots him a grin of his own.

"-but that you drank alcohol with a bunch of drunk uni kids.  _And_  that your brother's  _boyfriend_  of all people was the one to encourage it? How pissed do you imagine he'd be?"

The light in Sherlock's eyes sparkles with mischief, the image of an angry, red-faced Mycroft Holmes obviously enchanting to him, and John has to laugh out loud.

"You'd blatantly go against your partner's wishes like that?" John smirks to his teammate. "Sherlock and I won't be the only ones on the receiving end of Mycroft's wrath if we go to this party."

"Oh please, you think I'm afraid of Mycroft Holmes? Give me a break," Greg laughs. "Besides, he fucking deserves it after the shit he pulled today. Serves him right. Plus, I have complete confidence that Sherlock is actually a regular person who can take care of himself and not the fragile child Mycroft likes to pretend he is."

John has to hand it to Greg; he is pushing all the right buttons to get Sherlock to go to this party. Hell, if John knew Greg had all these tricks up his sleeve he would have gotten him in here a long time ago to force Sherlock outdoors with him.

He glances at the curly-haired boy who is staring back at him, excitement and fear mixed clearly in his pretty now-blue eyes, wanting and yet reluctant to venture out into unknown territory with unknown people, somehow silently pleading with John to help without actually asking for it.

"Anyway, you two decide what you want to do," Greg sighs, clearly taking the hint that some sort of silent conversation is being had right now. "I'm going to run home and shower, but let me know okay?"

And with that, Greg slips out the door.

John watches him go for a moment, composing himself before turning back to his roommate, still staring wide-eyed back at him. "We don't have to go if you don't want to," John starts, already seeing Sherlock recoiling slightly on John's gentle words. Sherlock hates to be pitied, that's become clear over the weeks. If John steps out too far, coddles him too much, he retreats immediately and closes himself off. John needs to be careful. "Although," he ventures, "can't you just picture the look on Mycroft's face when he finds out? Because, in my own very humble opinion, that alone would make it worth it."

The grin is immediate, spreading across Sherlock's delicate features rapidly. "He'll probably drop dead of a heart attack," he laughs, "or offer to pay you to stay away from me."

"Oh god, I hope he does," John chuckles, "Do you know how many dinners we could buy with that money?"

Giggling like two schoolboys, John can see the tension easing from Sherlock's body with the promise of what this will do to his brother if he goes. His face is soft and excited, still smiling as the laughter slowly fades.

"And I'll be there too, you know," John mumbles, looking away to keep the moment from getting too intense, too close to concern, and glancing around for his towel and clothing to change into after he showers because he can already tell what Sherlock's answer will be. "We can just, I dunno, hang out and have a beer or something."

He chances a glance to see Sherlock blow out a silent breath before nodding more to himself than anyone else. "Okay," Sherlock says. "That sounds good."

"Awesome," John grins, vowing to stay with Sherlock all night and planning to leave whenever Sherlock wants to, no matter what the circumstance, protect him without saying so, support him without being too obvious. "I'll let Greg know, then?"

"Yes, sure," Sherlock mumbles, eyes skittering across the floor, clearly already deep in thought, about what John has no idea.

Deciding he'd rather not push his luck, John doesn't reply and instead picks up his phone to send off a quick text that they'll meet Greg at the party.

The reply is almost instant with lots of exclamation points and smiley faces and John grins before gathering his items and heading off to the showers.

And if he'd been near Greg Lestrade at that moment, been anywhere near him then maybe, just maybe he would have noticed his friend swiping his thumb across his screen, opening a new text message box and typing out the name Mycroft Holmes in the To box before sending off a quick, brief message:

**Johnlock is a go. Well done today, love. You were brilliant.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING! We're having a constant lovefest on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come join in! XO!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Copious amounts of alcohol being had by all in this chapter. Just a heads up. Everyone is technically of age based on their location (UK) but just a heads up in case that bother anyone!
> 
>  _TRIPLE EXTRA SUPER THANK YOU TO MY DARLING ishaveforsherl!!! You are THE BEST babe, thank you for all the encouragement and help and love during the writing of this chapter, I so so needed it and I so so APPRECIATE it! LOVE YOU!_  

Well, this is it then, isn't it?

This is where it all ends.

This is where the most beautiful month of Sherlock's life comes grinding to a staggering, miserable halt.

And here he is, marching right toward it. Right toward the end. Right into the abyss.

Fuck.

He's an idiot.

A goddamn _idiot_.

How had he gotten himself into this situation? How had he  _allowed_  this to happen?  _How_?

He's bloody  _smarter_  than this _._  He is. He could have outmaneuvered this easily. He could have avoided and politely declined and scurried off to a lab or a library or a sodding café for christssake and  _not_  be in this mess of a situation, currently hauling right toward the demise of the only friendship he's ever had. He could have done any number of those things to avoid this altogether.

But he didn't.

He didn't do anything except agree.

He bloody  _agreed._

And why did he agree?

Because Mycroft Holmes is a fucking bastard.

If big, fat, stupid, idiotic  _Mycroft_  hadn't stuck his giant nose in Sherlock's business then he most  _definitely_  wouldn't have been fantasizing about the look on his older brother's face when he found out that his precious little sibling had gone to a party where not only alcohol was served, but attended with both his untrustworthy roommate and Mycroft's  _boyfriend_  of all people, then maybe Sherlock wouldn't be stuck in this ridiculous mess of a situation.

Being wooed by the potential of pissing off his big brother has always been Sherlock's weak spot.

So here he is now, strolling along a quiet sidewalk on a particularly chilly evening, barreling toward some random party, his first ever it should be noted, alongside the most beautiful idiot in the world.

That beautiful  _beautiful_  idiot, who looks even  _more_  beautiful tonight, blond fringe falling across his forehead in that way that looks messy but finished all at once, skin tinted a light pink from the cold night air, smelling fresh with a gentle hint of cologne, dressed simply but cleanly wearing a pretty dark grey jumper overtop a light grey and white checkered button-down, sleeves rolled neatly and evenly up to his elbows, shirttails free laying smoothly over snug jeans that wrap around his thighs just so, faded dark trainers covering his feet.

John Watson is undeniably gorgeous this evening.

It's almost unbearable being this close to him looking like that.

Sherlock would like to burn all of John's clothing and make him wear a goddamn garbage bag around so he doesn't have to see him looking so stunning all the fucking time, every outfit of his doing something slightly different to Sherlock's insides, including those hideous jumpers he owns which Sherlock would of course never ever burn, not  _ever_ , not when John looks so cuddly and soft in them making Sherlock want to snuggle up in his arms, press his face into the warmth of his chest or his belly and stay there forever.

Although, he has yet to have the reaction he had to John in his rugby uniform. Lord have mercy, that uniform…

No.

No time for thinking of that now.

But tonight, John's outfit is having a different affect. A subtler affect. An affect that warms Sherlock from head to toe and makes his heart feel like it's expanding in his chest, beating harshly against his ribcage in a steadythump of anticipation. Tonight, John looks handsome and kind and open, ready to take on the night with his roommate, currently chattering away happily, occasionally tossing excited little grins in Sherlock's direction, clearly pleased as punch to have gotten Sherlock to agree to this little outing.

And if Sherlock didn't know any better, if Sherlock wasn't fully aware of the possibility being entirely  _impossible_ , then tonight might feel slightly, maybe, potentially… like a date.

A date with John Watson.

Which is entirely laughable in its own right because obviously John Watson would never date Sherlock Holmes.  _Ever_. The idea is preposterous, completely and utterly absurd and Sherlock is already berating himself for even thinking it at all because it's obviously not a thing that would ever happen.

They are  _roommates_.

That's it.

They are roommates who eat together and spend evenings together simply out of proximity to each other. Sherlock may even dare to think that maybe they've sort of become… friends.

Which promptly drops a rather heavy stone right into the pit of Sherlock's gut, clenching harshly as the reality of what is going to happen after tonight slowly sinks in all over again, the reminder getting more and more painful as they near the party.

Tonight, Sherlock will meet John's team. John's friends. John's _real_  friends. He will be introduced to the boys John spends almost as much time with as he does Sherlock, the boys he cares for and likes, the boys that constantly text message him and ask him out for drinks and meals and parties. Normal boys. Boys that don't blow things up in their dorms rooms. Boys that would rather go be social than stay indoors and eat takeaway with their dorm mates. Boys that don't obsess over equations and mysteries and experiments. Boys who don't lust after the only person in the world who has ever been kind to them.

 _Normal_  boys.

Boys that will know exactly what Sherlock is the minute they meet him.

Boys that will alert John to the fact that his roommate isn't actually fascinating but just insane. Just your run of the mill lunatic. Just pathetic and weird with no friends or social life, with nothing else going on in his miserable life besides school and odd projects and bizarre experiments. Just a freak. Nothing more.

And John will turn on him.

It won't be his fault, of course, Sherlock already knows that. It won't be John's fault for finally realizing the truth. It will simply be the natural order of things. The truth. The universe righting itself because blokes like John Watson and blokes like Sherlock Holmes aren't supposed to be friends.

Sherlock would never be  _that_  lucky.

He's been abnormally lucky enough to get John's attention all these weeks. One beautiful month. Sherlock will always remember it fondly.

Hopefully, it won't be ugly. John has been so kind to him, Sherlock hopes he will give him one last act of kindness by maybe just disappearing during the day while Sherlock is in class. Quietly moving his things out of their shared room without a word. That's what Sherlock would prefer. A clean break. No awkward good-byes, no slowly pulling away. Just leave.

He wonders if maybe luck will be on his side just one more time to grant him this small mercy.

He supposes he will find out tonight.

"Okay, Paul's is… down here, I think?" John points to his left and crosses the street lined with townhomes, scattered students sitting out of their porches and steps, holding cups and beer bottles and cigarettes, chatting and laughing like normal uni attendees. With a deep breath and an internal scold to his inner-turmoil, Sherlock follows, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he catches up with his roommate.

"Ah! Here we go," John claps his hands, jogging up the three cement stairs with a bit of a spring in each of his steps to one of the many front doors and rapping his knuckles against the wood.

Sherlock follows with slightly less enthusiasm, something suspiciously like nerves squirming unpleasantly in his belly.

And then that beautiful idiot turns to grin at him and the curly-haired boy's stomach all but bottoms out entirely.

"Nervous?"

Blue eyes glint with good-natured teasing and Sherlock is momentarily stumped on an answer as he loses himself in the depths of John's eyes, pooling deeper and darker under the dim porch light, seeming fathomless and all-consuming. He wonders if this will be one of the last times John looks at him like this; like he's worth looking at.

Before he can bring himself back to reality and school his thoughts back into place a loud clatter from behind the door startles them both, heads whipping around to the sound.

They don't have to wait long to find out what it is.

The door swings open with the force of someone either very excited or very drunk, rattling the metal knocker and flooding the quiet porch with the sounds of voices and music and laughter and warmth.

And Sherlock immediately begins to panic as he finds a round-faced boy staring back at them through glassy, lidded eyes, mouth quirked in a lazy smile, a tumbler full of unsettled amber liquid clutched in his grasp.

"Johnny!" the boy cries tipping his glass up in a mock cheers, sloshing the liquid over the edges as he stumbles from the force of his own arm movement, falling off balance and catching the handle of the door for support. "Woah," he mumbles, steadying himself and giggling. "I almost fell over."

"Yeah, you did," John chuckles cheerfully, watching his apparent friend sway on his feet in the doorway. "Way to start the party without us, Mike."

Ah, Mike then.

The drunk one is Mike.

Good to know.

Sherlock catalogues that away, although he's certain the title will need to be amended after he actually enters the party. Lord only knows how many of these people will be drenched in alcohol.

Blinking slightly to clear what could only be nausea based on his level of inebriation, Mike narrows his eyes at John for a moment before swinging his head around in Sherlock's direction, eyes widening slightly. "Ah! You must be Sherlock!" he practically yells, taking an unsteady step toward the curly-haired boy and tossing a heavy hand onto his shoulder, giving it a rather harsh squeeze. "Good ta meet y'mate!"

If he's honest, Sherlock has no idea how to respond. He's thrown off balance slightly as Mike rattles his slight frame and Sherlock's thoughts all seem to scatter into hiding, having no interest in assisting him in seeming somewhat normal.

To his relief, John comes to his rescue.

"Yup, this is Sherlock," he laughs, stepping between them and squeezing Mike's arm to shake it loose of its iron grip on Sherlock's shoulder. "Now how about you get out of our way so we can actually come in?"

With a loud, boisterous belly laugh, Mike takes a dramatic step aside and waves them in with his glass, spilling more liquor onto the floor without noticing. "Sure, sure, come on in! Booze are in the kitchen, beer is out back and I think the boys are setting up Beer Pong in the sitting room." He nods, more to himself than anything, clearly quite proud for having remembered all the goings-on of the party. He grins happily and staggers away toward the sounds of cheers coming from the other room and Sherlock cranes his neck to see if he can catch a glimpse of what's happening.

Chuckling beside him, John nods his head in the opposite direction. "Come on," he smiles that stupid, bright smile of his that always does funny things to Sherlock's stomach. "I say we get drinks first and then I'll introduce you around?"

Nodding, because the thought of making words right now seems completely impossible as fear continues to be his dominate emotion, Sherlock follows behind his roommate, attempting to sink in on himself and appear as small and unassuming as possible, hoping no one will notice him. He doesn't want to talk to anyone but more importantly he doesn't want anyone talking to _him_. He's bad at this. This social thing. He'd prefer not to embarrass himself in front of John this early in the night. He's certain that'll come later, anyhow.

The party is not quite as loud as Sherlock had anticipated it being. A dull hum and quiet thump of music are filling the air certainly but he'd kind of assumed that people would be yelling drunkenly and maybe swinging from chandeliers, shouting at each other or fighting from what he'd seen in movies. He's never been to a proper party. Truth is: he's never been invited.

There are an awful lot of people here, though. Too many. Or maybe it just feels that way because Sherlock doesn't know a single one of them. It's a bit stifling winding his way through bodies, keeping his eyes trained on the blond head he's following, the urge to reach out and grab John's hand so as not to lose track of him so strong he clenches his fists into his pockets. He's overwhelmed with all these unknown people and all this unknown social etiquette and all the unknowns period. This is exactly why he doesn't ever put himself in situations like this. It's uncomfortable and stressful and bloody  _terrifying_.

What's worse, Sherlock soon realizes, is that all of these people he doesn't know seem to know John.  _Everyone_. Claps on the back, brief hugs, fond smiles and waves are offered as they make their way through, and Sherlock doesn't miss several appreciative gazes down John's fit body from spectators eyeing the rugby player making his way through the crowd. Clearly Sherlock isn't the only one to notice how dashing John looks this evening.

Something unpleasant and sickening roils through Sherlock's slender frame as angry heat prickles the back of his neck. People need to keep their obtrusive eyes to  _themselves_ and  _not_  on his roommate's perfect stocky body, thank you very much. He pointedly ignores a small group of girls giggling as one of them yells ' _Hi John!_ ' then turns back to her friends and buries her reddening, excited face in her hands after he returns her catcall with a nod and a kind smile. Not an overly friend smile, Sherlock notes and takes a twisted pleasure in, resisting the urge to turn and smirk smugly at the girl for no apparent reason other than the fact that she actually  _didn't_ get John's full attention like she'd wanted.

Which is when he realizes what's going on.

John is… known here. Famous, even. Girls falling all over themselves for his attention, everyone greeting him excitedly. It's so obvious, and so something Sherlock hadn't even considered before and the urge to whack himself in the forehead for his clear stupidity is a strong one that he has to resist with effort.

John is a fucking  _rugby player_. A good one. Fantastic, even. From what Sherlock saw of him during that single scrimmage, it's that John was born to play rugby. He was recruited to this school for godsake. He's a stud. A  _star_. And as little as Sherlock knows about social interactions, one thing he does know is that people love athletes. They love team spirit and they love cheering at games and they l _ove_  to ogle players like they are something to eat. If secondary school had taught Sherlock anything, it's that athletes – particularly rugby players- are well-loved in London, infatuated with and obsessed over.

Athletes also get away with a lot. Like pummeling awkward kids and being celebrated for it.

Sherlock would know.

Not that John is that type of rugby player, of course he isn't.

But this is just proving Sherlock's fears, isn't it? Fears that he would never be able to hold John's attention for long. Proof that Sherlock is hardly worth John's time at all. Proof that John is  _somebody_. Proof that John Watson has more than just Sherlock Holmes in his life.

Unlike Sherlock.

Who only has John.

John, who belongs to all of these other people. John who has friends and an entire team of mates and girls batting their eyelashes at him. John who has so much more in his life, so many other things to do, so many other people to spend time with. John who doesn't sit around all day watching the clock and waiting in anticipation for dinnertime to roll around so he can _finally_  spend time with his roommate.

Jesus, Sherlock has been a fucking idiot.

This is so much worse than he ever could have imagined.

Attempting to shrink even further into invisibility, Sherlock follows that popular boy around to the back of the house and into the kitchen where a number of boys are standing around, filling drinks and chatting together like friends do, something Sherlock wouldn't know anything about.

Amongst them stands Greg Lestrade and Sherlock is certain he's never been happier to see his brother's significant other in his life. A familiar face helps ease the ache of the evening, if only slightly.

"Fellas," John flicks a hand up in greeting and the gaggle of lads all turn to look at the two newcomers standing in the small entryway to the kitchen, Sherlock angling himself just off to the side to appear less invasive, attempting to prepare himself for anything. If John wants to introduce him, he's close enough to step up pleasantly and shake hands. If John wants to ignore him in favor of his friends, Sherlock can slip quietly away and, who knows, maybe run home to their dorm as fast as his legs will carry him and forget he tried to be anything other than the freak that he is.

He's momentarily startled by the swell of cheers seeming to be coming from all around him in the small area as the boys cheer  _Johnny!_ 's And  _Watson!_ 's and  _You made it!_ 's, clearly all very excited that their teammate has made it. Sherlock can't stop the acrid taste of jealousy stinging the back of his throat at the open affection these boys are directing at his roommate. He wishes he could be normal enough to be this way to John as well. John deserves all the affection in the world.

Beaming to the small crowd, the blond boy grins and nods his responses pleasantly, seeming quite comfortable and in his element, clearly used to being the center of attention, and Sherlock is just about to make his escape, half turning on a heel well-

"And is this Sherlock?" One of the boys currently crowding closer nods, smiling sunnily in Sherlock's direction.

"Wha- the  _famous_  Sherlock Holmes?" Another one crows, "Are you serious? You got him out of your room?!"

Eyes widening slightly at the fact that anyone here knows him at all, Sherlock blinks several times, waiting for the gears in his head to switch into deduction mode so he can figure out what the hell is going on right now. Famous?  _Sherlock Holmes_? Surely, he'd heard that wrong.

"Told you," Greg grins proudly before Sherlock can recover, glancing around the group with obvious pride. "Didn't I tell you he was bringing him?"

"You did, but you're a notorious liar, Cap," another bloke in the group calls and the rest dissolve into laughter. "We never believe a word you say!"

"Oh, really?" Greg sneers, though his features are bright. Teasing, Sherlock assumes. "You don't believe me when I say I'll be doubling conditioning come Monday if you don't cool it in front of my boyfriend's baby brother?"

"Not a word!" the boy chuckles, throwing a fond grin in Sherlock's direction. "Don't worry, mate, we don't take this one seriously  _at all_. He tries to act like a hard arse but really he's just a big softy. Tell your brother that from all of us!"

Unsure of exactly what his response is supposed to be, Sherlock offers a short nod, feeling unbelievably out of place with all these loud-mouthed, laid back boys, tossing jabs at each other playfully, clearly quite comfortable together. It's blatantly obvious that this is the rugby team. It's also blatantly obvious that Sherlock doesn't belong here with them. Not at all. It's so glaringly clear, he wonders if they all can feel it already.

"Alright, alright, settle down," John laughs at Sherlock's side. "Yes, this is my roommate, Sherlock Holmes. And before you lot go scaring him off with your, uh,  _enthusiasm_ , might I warn you that he's a genius, far more intelligent than all of you combine so try not to act like the tossers I know you are around him, alright?"

"Oh yeah!" The boy that had accused Sherlock of being famous snaps his fingers into the air. "You do that thing, right? The one where you can see stuff about people?"

"Oh," Sherlock mumbles twisting his fingers behind his back and dropping his gaze to the floor, fear and panic riddling his thoughts into gibberish. He can't deduce these boys. They won't like it. No one likes his deductions. Except John. But John is  _different_. "I… I don't, uh- I just…"

"Oh please, Paul," John interjects, to Sherlock's relief, "we don't need Sherlock's genius to deduce that you're totally into your maths professor, now do we?"

The burst of laughter yet again startles Sherlock just short of jumping backward.

"I am not!" The boy identified as Paul cries indignantly, cheeks reddening as his eyes widen, though the corners of his lips are tugging up at the corners.

"Oh, it's so obvious," Greg laughs, thumping Paul on the back with the palm of his hand. "Sorry mate but nobody talks that much about a lecture about  _fractions_ of all things."

"It was a good lecture," Paul mumbles indignantly before falling into laughter with the rest of the team. "Okay, you know what, fuck all of you, alright?"

"Ah, come on, I'm sure you've got a shot with her!" Another boy calls, "I mean, if she likes scrawny little teenagers, then you'll absolutely do!" And the insults continue to volley back and forth, the entire team shaking with laughter.

It's a bit fascinating, actually. To watch this group of boys chat so gleefully, teasing and taunting while never actually hurting feelings or purposefully provoking anger is something Sherlock has never witnessed before amongst blokes his age. It's sort of captivating in a way he'd never known it could be.

He continues to watch this interaction silently, eyes tracking the conversation as the jokes continue to fly around the group, cheers and snorts and laughter all following shortly behind, the interaction flowing so effortlessly between these men. His blank mind finally seems to kick itself into gear and the deductions begin to flow easily as he takes in each boy and their history, finding nothing criminal about any of them really, all of them generally a bit boring if he's honest.  _Overbearing father, twin brother that attends a different school, third year and still bouncing between majors, cheating on his awful girlfriend who won't let him break it off, last year in uni and dreading graduation, communications major, political science major_ ,  _pre-law, pre-med, boring boring boring_. Absolutely nothing interesting  _at all_. Mostly good students, definitely strong men, all seem positively delighted to be in one another's company. And they all seem…  _happy_.

And Sherlock is absolutely  _riveted_.

He's never seen anything like this before; young men enjoying the company of each other, no ulterior motives, no one attempting to dominate the others, no one putting anyone down, no one purposefully hurting anyone. Every single one of them has a grin on their face and a ready laugh, all clearly enjoying their time together. It's fascinating.

Sherlock ignores the flickers of memories attempting to push themselves forward into his thoughts of the blokes he once knew in sixth form, of those boys not only bullying him but each other, always aggressive and angry and mean, never looking half as cheery as this bunch. He flings those thoughts aside for now since _clearly_  the small sample he had of boys his age in secondary school had been incredibly skewed because here he stands with a good handful of young men that seem…  _lovely_. There is no other word for it. And Sherlock had thought John would be the only person he'd ever use that word to describe.

Which is where most of his attention, of course, lands; on that blond boy beside him, grinning from ear to ear, laughing and nodding, lobbing out his own two cents and getting nothing but gaiety in return. He's in his element here. John _belongs_  here. And Sherlock is overcome with all the new data he's just gathered about John Watson. He is mesmerized.

And, if he's honest, a bit jealous. It all looks so easy for this group. All getting along famously, enjoying each other's company,  _wanting_  to be here. It's not awkward or strange or uncomfortable, not any of the normal things Sherlock experiences in large group settings. It's… simple. Nice, even.

And it tears something like a hole inside of Sherlock's chest, creating a small empty space between his lungs. It's not large, not all-consuming, but it's there lurking suddenly, making itself known, alerting Sherlock to its presence subtly and staking a claim inside him. A longing of sorts. A small little space that reminds him he will never be a part of anything like this. Not ever.

And that tiny little hole seems to rip itself wider the moment John Watson's bright smile throws itself in Sherlock's direction, a bright grin offered only to him, brows raised encouragingly, fondess written all over those precious features as John nods slightly as if to say:  _See? It's okay. You belong just fine._

The stone in Sherlock's gut seems to grow heavier as the emptiness in his chest threatens to tear even further.  _Oh, John. You see but you do not observe_.

"How about a drink?" Greg grins, flicking his eyes between the roommates.

"Absolutely," John replies, clapping his hands together. "Is beer alright, Sherlock?"

"Mhm," he determines with a nod, rather grateful that the decision is not actually in his hands as to what drink he'll be having. "Please," he tacks on at the end. Christ he needs to watch himself tonight. Best behavior, Sherlock. If this is the beginning of the end, at least try to make it last.

"I'll go grab them," John grins, still practically beaming as he slips by Sherlock and out of the kitchen, making his way to the sliding glass door leading out to the patio.

Finding himself suddenly feeling more uncomfortably out of place without John's presence, Sherlock side-steps his way subtly closer to Greg, continuously attempting to shrink into nothing. He ignores the pleased little smile his brother's boyfriend tosses in his direction, pretending not to notice just how kind Greg is being to him this evening. He wants to be annoyed by it, rather than feel exceptionally grateful.

"Alright, boys, game on!" Someone announces with a clap of their hands resounding loudly in the tiny kitchen from just behind Sherlock as they enter. "Who's up first?"

Startled slightly by familiarity, head tipping slightly to the new voice, the curly-haired boy peeks over his shoulder to find out if his theory is correct or not.

And sure enough, with a tiny sag of relief at another familiar face, Sherlock finds himself catching eyes with his third lab partner, the one he'd only seen hours earlier, the one that isn't altogether intolerable.

"Sherlock!" Victor Trevor cries in obvious surprise, though the corners of his mouth tip upward, and if Sherlock didn't know better, he'd say Victor was happy to see him.

Which makes no sense at all, so he throws that thought away immediately.

Though he can't deny he's somewhat happy to see another person he's had some sort of encounter with before tonight. It's been overwhelming here already in this sea of unknown people and it's only been twenty minutes. Victor is definitely not the brightest human being he's ever come across, but he's nice enough, always smiling during their work sessions and nodding his head in vigorous agreement with everything Sherlock says, eyes widening with all the new information on their project. Irene has stated on several occasions her belief that he's a complete moron but he's easy enough to ignore so Sherlock doesn't pay him much thought.

"Didn't expect to see you here," Victor grins at him, green eyes twinkling in the dim lighting.

Tipping his head in acknowledgement, Sherlock notices how relaxed Victor looks in this setting compared to when he sees him during class and study sessions. He's never seen him look so... calm. Confident, even. Like this is where he belongs.

It's quite a contrast to the usual frantic, somewhat panicked boy Sherlock sees during class. Chemistry must really not be his cup of tea.

Standing just an inch or two shorter than the genius, Sherlock realizes Victor isn't actually all that bad looking now that his presence is more than just a deer-in-headlights idiot trying to keep up with Sherlock's rapid thought process over chemical equations he doesn't understand. He's got rather brilliant green eyes that are currently shining a bit like emeralds that are currently trained on Sherlock rather intensely, soft around the edges while taking on a deeper, richer tone in the center. The waves of his chestnut hair are tucked back this evening with a bit of product, forcing it off to the side in a rather fashionable way, matching his sleek red button down, dark skinny jeans, and grey high top boots.

He looks nice.

Sharp.

Handsome even.

Not like John handsome, but visually pleasing enough. It's obvious he tried quite hard this evening to look impressive and Sherlock has to give him credit for succeeding. By any society standards, Victor Trevor could probably be considered particularly gorgeous based on Sherlock's extensive internet research and magazine perusal. He's sporting the exact look most of the male models wear in ad campaigns targeted at boys their age and pulling it off rather well.

Curiosity is getting the better of him as Sherlock's gaze lingers on the fine material of Victor's shirt, trying to determine what brand it is and where it had been purchased. It's silly he knows. Sherlock does not need new clothes. He's been lucky enough not to want for much in his young life and whenever he needed new clothing, the items seem to materialize in his closet without a word, no one ever alerting him and Sherlock never saying thank you, though he could take an educated guess as to who was behind the shopping. Mrs. Hudson always did have a knack for knowing things no one's told her.

And he'd appreciated it, truly he had. He dressed cleanly and nice enough, everything fit properly and she'd even ventured into the dark denim territory, purchasing nicely snug jeans that fit Sherlock to a T making his arse look rather spectacular if he did say so himself, which he's wearing tonight of course for the special occasion of a night out with John. But already being the target of many much larger boys at his secondary school, Sherlock had barely ventured out in his newly acquired jeans during his 13th year for not only fear of being torn down for attempting to look somewhat presentable, but concern that his new clothing may be torn to shreds in the midst of a usual scuffle, Sherlock being thrown to the ground more times than he could count.

It's a ridiculous thing to care about, Sherlock knows. Who cares what he wears? No one is looking at him. No one is interested in him like that. Why should he care?

God, but he  _does_  care. And staring at Victor Trevor dressed to the nines makes him care even more.

He glances up to find bright green eyes glinting at him, a genuine smile sitting just below them, a bit tentative but kind all the same, almost in what Sherlock felt was an offering. "It's good to see you here, I mean," Victor huffs a laugh with a small lift and fall of his shoulder in an innocent shrug, brows pinched slightly like he's concerned he'd just offended Sherlock.

Which of course he hasn't. Sherlock hadn't expected to see himself here either. "Victor," he nods in greeting, not entirely sure what else to say, a bit horrified to have been caught attempting to deduce what designer his lab partner is wearing.

"Here we are, then," John's voice swoops back into Sherlock's ear from just over his shoulder before a cold glass bottle is being pushed into his hand as he saddles up beside his roommate, the curly-haired boy reminding himself silently to thank John for saving him from what was about to be a very painful, awkward silence. "I didn't know what you liked so I got you a cider. I think the uh- oh. Hello." John nods to Victor who is still standing in the kitchen, immediately sticking out a hand like the friendly bloke that he is. "I'm John."

"Victor," the taller boy replies, gripping John's hand firmly with a tight, close-lipped smile. "Nice to meet you."

"You too," John replies, although if Sherlock isn't mistaken, John's voice has gone a bit stiff, slightly gruffer than before, like he doesn't actually think it's nice meeting this new boy. Before he can inquire about this odd development, Victor is speaking again.

"Sherlock and I have Chemistry together," he goes on, answering a question no one asked, smiling politely down at the blond boy. "We're doing a project together."

Something seems a bit off about Victor's speech pattern, Sherlock notes. Something that hadn't been there before. The character of the wording twist subtly in the boy's mouth, like the words don't exactly mean what he says, some sort of undertone to his simple, and factual, statement.

"Mm," is John's reply with a nod, tone stilted and rigid, the tension palpable in that single sound, "Well he and I are roommates, so."

And even to Sherlock's ears it sounds like a challenge. Like someone is accusing John of  _not_  being Sherlock's roommate and the blond boy feels the need to remind whoever is making this accusation that that is in fact  _not_  the case. Frowning, the curly-haired boy can't help but sneak a peek out of the corner of his eye at his roommate, wondering where on earth he'd gotten the impression that anyone was suggesting they aren't actually dorm mates.

John looks a bit... he doesn't have a word for it. Uneasy? Irritated? Uncomfortable? Sherlock can't put a finger on it. His features are pinched upward in what looks like a painful smile, lips pressed together in a white line as they attempt to curve with effort, posture rigid, fingers gripping his beer rather harshly as the color is drained from each digit. His body looks like a statue, pulled taut like a rubber band about to snap in half, and Sherlock can practically feel the strain on his muscles to stand that still looking that… again, there is no word for it. There is no explanation for the way John is looking right now. All the curly-haired boy knows is that this look is not a good one. Not at all.

Before Sherlock can question what the matter is, concern etching around the corners of his mind that maybe  _he's_  done something to set this reaction off in his roommate, Paul comes crashing through the doorway, swinging a heavy arm around Victor's neck with a grin of triumph. "Ah, good, you met Johnny!" he cheers loudly, jostling Victor in his grasp, who is also grinning, shaking his head fondly at the slightly drunk boy wringing his neck. Paul giggles and blinks back at them. "Victor is my new roommate."

"Oh," John mumbles and Sherlock glances down just in time to see John  _finally_  break free of that awful look he'd been sporting only moments ago, shaking his head slightly as though freeing scattered thoughts from his mind, refocusing on his surroundings. He isn't altogether back, but he's close enough to put Sherlock's mind at ease. " _Oh!_ " he repeats as though some epiphany has just struck him with great force. "So that's why you're here!"

Paul snorts, though Sherlock notes that Victor doesn't look particularly amused. "'Course!" Paul cheers, giving Victor another shake for good measure. "He lives here!"

"Ah," John nods soundly, more to himself than anyone else, seeming to have cleared the nasty fog that had clouded his precious features, coming back around again. "Sorry. I thought you'd come for…" John waves a limp hand in the general direction of where Sherlock is standing beside him, looking a bit confused at his own thoughts before righting himself yet again with a tilt of his head, making some internal decision before sitting back on his heels a bit, the edge in his posture waning to relaxed again. "So you're roommates with Paul," he reiterates. Sherlock glances down at the bottle perched in John's grasp and wonders if that small amount of alcohol has already gone to John's head. Poor bloke is being a bigger idiot than usual. A  _beautiful_  idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. "And you take Chemistry with Sherlock?"

"Right," Victor beams, seeming not put off in the least that John is practically repeating their conversation, though Victor's bright features seem to be focusing on the wrong roommate, eyes trained on Sherlock's questioning face. "We're partners."

Nodding, because it's technically true, Sherlock recoils slightly under Victor's stare, wishing it would stop, the glare a bit bright for his taste, feeling like a small insect caught in a web for a brief moment and is about to say so when Victor finally tears his gaze away and slaps his hands together. "Alright! Who's up first?"

"First for what?" Mike garbles, appearing from around the corner and stumbling his way into the small, tight-knit group, though his eyes have lost that dazed look, clearly having sobered just slightly since the last time Sherlock had seen him.

"Pong," Paul supplies helpfully before whipping his head back around, suddenly wide eyes landing on John before shouting with a grin, "I call Johnny!"

"What?!" Greg cries, suddenly appearing at Sherlock's shoulder, the rest of the rugby team drifting up behind him, conversations dying down at the sound of their captain hollering. "Jesus Christ Paul, are you serious right now?"

Glancing around the group, Sherlock catches sight of several impressively angry glares from the rest of the rugby team members.

Or, not angry exactly. More like… shock? Outrage? Incredulity? Like Paul 'calling' John was a crime against them all. Like this was something really terrible. Like Paul had just committed treason against some sort of rugby team code.

John must be very good at…whatever 'Pong' is.

"What?" Paul demands, though the annoyance is weakened as he cowers slightly to the multiple narrowed eyes, clearly catching on that he'd definitely done something wrong, eyes darting around the group for a moment, landing on Sherlock briefly and widening ever so slightly before flickering downward. "Sorry," he mumbles to the floor in an attempt to defend himself, "John's just  _really_ good."

Frowning, Sherlock cocks his head. That point was made fairly obvious when he'd 'called' John. Why would he-

"Uh," John coughs uncomfortably and Sherlock glances down to watch the blond boy shuffle his feet. Huh. Paul must be _really_  bad at this event for John to look so torn about being involved with him for it. "I thought I'd actually-"

"Hey, Sherlock," Victor nods at him with a grin, cutting through John's words, "do you want to-"

A harsh throat clear from somewhere beside Sherlock cuts Victor off, drowning out the last of his sentence as suddenly Mike surges to life, tripping into the middle of the small crowd and cheering, "I'll take Sherlock! We'll play Paul and Johnny!"

Before he can even react to this news that he's apparently not only playing something but he'll be up against two people while attempting to coordinate with a partner, Sherlock catches a rather harsh exhale from the boy standing across the group from him. "I was actually going to ask Sherlock to be my partner," Victor scowls at Mike, mouth pinched in irritation.

"Really?" Mike shrugs, not looking the least bit concerned as he sways slightly on his feet, barely looking in Victor's direction before turning back to his newfound partner. "Welp, you snooze you lose I guess! What'ya say Sherlock? You in?"

With a rather intense glower in Mike's direction, Victor spins on his heel and practically stomps out of the room, which Sherlock finds completely childish and almost hysterical, considering the fact the Victor is quite literally missing out on nothing. Sherlock doesn't even know what Pong is. He and Mike will surely lose. If anything, Victor has dodged a bullet as far as the genius is concerned.

Until he realizes all eyes are on him as every head turns to hear his answer to Mike's question. And just like that, the amusement is gone and Sherlock's forehead breaks out in a cool sweat as panic sweeps through him, his throat going abruptly dry. He rubs at the back of his burning neck, so unbelievably humiliated he wants to turn on his heel and run out the door. "Oh," he murmurs down to his shoes, "I, uh… I don't… I've never… played."

There is a beat of silence long enough to make Sherlock's chest clench harshly with panic before-

"What-  _ever_?" Paul cries, eyes widening. "You've seriously never played Beer Pong? Not _ever_?"

"No, not  _ever_ ," Sherlock snarks back, rolling his eyes in an attempt to mask the embarrassment threatening to suffocate him. "I actually have more important things going on in my life than learning some moronic game."

It takes two miserable seconds to realize what he's done.

And then Sherlock can't breathe for a whole other reason.

 _Damn_  his tongue.

He shouldn't have said that.

He shouldn't have said  _anything_.

_Idiot._

Well, that's it, then. He lasted all of thirty minutes. Well done, Holmes. Say goodbye to John while you still can.

And just as he's about to do that, just as he's about to toss one last longing gaze in his roommate's direction, attempt to silently apologize for being a right prat, a harsh, though now familiar, hand comes down on his shoulder followed by a loud belly-laugh.

"Oh god, I was wondering when we were going to get to meet  _you_ ," Mike giggles beside him, jostling him around. "John said you had a tongue on you, I've been  _dying_  to hear it. Beer Pong is totally moronic. It's definitely not as interesting as blowing things up in your room, of that I am sure."

Startled right out of his sulk, Sherlock tosses a frantic glance to the blond boy at his side only to find John grinning up at him almost… proudly? Fondly? Sherlock has no idea but it instantly warms him all over, though he still has the wherewithal to bark, "You _told_  them that?"

Grinning wider, like Sherlock's reaction is exactly what he was hoping for, John nods eagerly with a laugh. "Of course I told them that. It was funny."

"You didn't think it was so funny when putting the experiment ban on our room," Sherlock gripes back, trying and failing not to wonder how often John talks about him when he isn't around.

"Dorm rules," John raises his palms up with an all-too-innocent shrug. "Don't blame the enforcer."

"Oh, I  _certainly_  blame the enforcer," Sherlock sneers back, fighting the twitching of his own lips.

Tossing his head back and laughing hardily in that way Sherlock adores, John recovers and nods his head toward the other room. "Come on," John chuckles, "We're going to teach you how to play Beer Pong."

"Yeah, it'll be fun!" Mike agrees with a vigorous nod and a smile.

"You still want to partner with me?" The words escape him before he can stop them, because they do sound truly pathetic, but Sherlock doesn't understand. That doesn't make  _any_  sense. Why would Mike want to play with someone who doesn't even know the game?

"Sure!" Mike says happily, waving a hand for Sherlock to follow as the rest of the team make their way out of the kitchen and into the sitting room where a rather large green table has appeared, red cups lined in a pyramid on either end. Sherlock eyes it carefully, curiosity getting the better of him, eyes darting across the table, attempting to decipher the rules and goals. What  _is_  this game? "Beer pong is kind of a win-win type deal," Mike continues to chatter, "If you're bad, you drink more but if you're good, you get to stay at the table and challenge another team."

Sounds simple enough. Sherlock is grateful there aren't any high stakes for this little match, considering he still has no idea what constitutes winning and losing. He follows Mike to one side of the table, catching Paul and John making their way to the other, ignoring the twist in his stomach at the distance between him and his roommate.

Which is of course when John glances up at him as he finds his spot on the other end and fucking  _smiles_ that stupid, brilliant smile, looking quite chuffed with the situation and himself for getting Sherlock into it. Rolling his eyes, the genius can't quite fight the grin on his face and John laughs, giving him a nod of approval before turning back to his own teammate. With a happy little warmth blooming in his chest, Sherlock follows suite and turns his full attention to Mike.

Picking up two small plastic balls out of a cup sitting just off to the side of the pyramid that Sherlock quickly counts has ten cups, Mike hands him one. It's very flimsy and light, made just of plastic, thin enough that Sherlock could probably close his fist around it and crush it easily. He holds it delicately and peers into the cups on his end, finding each one half-filled with amber liquid, smelling strongly of beer. Hm. Interesting.

"The goal is to toss this little guy into the cups on their side," Mike says, lifting the ball up between his thumb and forefinger. "We get one shot each. If you make it into their cups, they have to drink. If they make it into our cups, we have to drink. You can't throw from beyond our end of the table and you can't block their shots. Got it?"

Nodding once succinctly, Sherlock sets his beer bottle to the side and grips the tiny sphere in his hand, palm sweating around it as he realizes this game does actually require some sort of skill. He's glad there isn't much expectation on how he plays but he'd prefer not to make a damn fool out of himself.

"I'll go first," Mike murmurs to him with a wink before turning back to the table and almost yelling, "Let's show these wankers how the pros play!"

"Is there pro Beer Pong?" Sherlock queries curiously.

Mike laughs. "Nope! But there should be! I would be the champion!"

"Yeah, yeah, shut it and throw your damn ball," John calls from the other end of the table with a grin. "No one wants to hear about your sad dreams to become a professional Beer Pong player."

Still laughing, Mike rears back and, for all intents and purposes, chucks the tiny ball over the table, lobbing it high and far, barely nicking the edge of the last row of cups, missing almost spectacularly. Paul catches it with one hand and holds it up over his head like a prize. "Pro, huh?" he grins, tossing the ball up and catching it again with a brow raise. "Do pro Beer Pong players actually suck?"

Blinking a few times to clear the drunk fog again, Mike shrugs and takes a swig of his beer bottle before turning back to Sherlock. "Your turn!" he cheers and the genius has to bite back on a laugh as Mike smiles at him. He's finding he actually doesn't mind Mike's drunken antics and is rather pleased to have him as his partner in this new game. Of course he'd rather have gone with John but all things considered, he's surprised to find that this is turning out to be quite fun.

He's also rather grateful that Mike's shot was terrible. If he can at least land the ball near a cup he'd call it a victory.

"Come on, Sherlock!" Greg cheers from the side of the table, tipping his beer up in support. "Give 'em hell!"

Taking a deep breath, he steps forward, bottom lip pinched between his teeth in deep concentration, biting down the nerves squirming in his belly. The room seems to go quiet, though Sherlock is certain that is untrue, it still feels like it. Taking a deep breath, he stares down the rows of cups at the other end, calculating just how far away they are and how hard he needs to toss this plastic ball to get it there. Tilting his head in concentration, he traces the path along the smattering of red, over the edge and up to his opposing team in an attempt to get a clear picture of distance, only to find strong arms crossed over a broad, grey-covered chest, before meeting deep blue eyes glinting back at him, a smirk playing on the lips sitting just below them, a brow raised just above.

A dare.

John Watson is  _daring_  him.

Refocusing on the cups, lips twitching with the effort not to return the grin, Sherlock blinks once, twice, and then flings the ball across the table, begging some unseen entity to not let his inexperience embarrass him in front of all these rugby players as his eyes follow the ball's course.

He'd thrown it rather direct and sharp, aiming in the general direction of the pyramid, hoping to hit something, anything, though he panics for a beat as the ball makes its way to the other end for what feels like eternity.

He holds his breath as the small plastic sphere zips through the air, taking no time at all while simultaneously taking a century to arrive at its destination, when finally Sherlock hears it.

The tap against the cup and then the plop against the liquid inside and before he can process what just happened, John's voice cuts through his laser-focus.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Swallowing harshly, Sherlock stares down the single red cup that tops the pyramid, the cup that now holds the ball he'd just thrown, rattling slightly at the impact of the shot, the cup that means the genius scored on his very first Beer Pong throw  _ever_.

"Oh shit, well done!" Greg cheers, startling Sherlock from his reverie as he glances at his brother's boyfriend to find him beaming at him. "You just hit the hardest cup, mate!"

He did?

Oh Christ, he  _did_.

"Did…" Paul starts and stops, staring wide-eyed at the cup now containing the ball Sherlock had rocketed into it, "Did we… did we just get  _hustled_?"

What?

No!

Sherlock didn't  _hustle_ anyone! He doesn't even know  _how_ to hustle!

Immediately searching out his dorm mate, Sherlock bites his lip as he frets, something like worry wafting through his brain. Not good? Is it not good that he seems to have a knack for this game? John?

But that feeling, that concern creeping up his spine, the fear that he'd really done something bad fades back into the darkness of his swirling thoughts as he finds his roommate smirking at him, looking surprised and delighted all at once, like Sherlock is some sort of marvelous wonder.

"Ah, no," John shakes his head, eyes still locked on Sherlock. "No, I think our opponent here is just as surprised as we are."

And then John has the audacity to drop a  _wink_  at the curly-haired boy.

"Jesus,  _of course_  you're good at something you've never done before," the blond boy glowers playfully, brows pinched sternly as his lips continue to pluck up at the corners. "You're going to kick our arses, aren't you?"

Narrowing his eyes slightly, although allowing himself to be cautiously pleased, Sherlock doesn't get the chance to answer as Mike swings an arm around his shoulder and lifts his beer in excitement, jostling Sherlock in his grasp.

"Hell fucking yes we are!" he all but shouts in Sherlock's ear. "Game on, boys!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

One hour, two beers and three rounds later, Mike and Sherlock are  _dominating_  the table, taking down every team they face with Sherlock's precision and Mike's lucky lobbing, the rest of the rugby team gathered around and cheering them on, hollering their names and whooping excitedly when a shot is made.

It's all so _exciting_.

Finding himself grinning more often than not, focusing steadily on making each and every shot, chasing that applause, that praise as he sinks another ball into a red cup, Sherlock is certain he has never felt this way before.

Christ it's exhilarating.

It's exhilarating because these boys surrounding him play this game all the time and Sherlock is actually good, if not better, than them.

It's exhilarating because Sherlock is being accepted as one of them.

It's exhilarating because John is right there to see every minute of it.

Hollering and cheering right at his side, slapping a hand to his shoulder or back, John is enchanting like this, deeply enthralled in the game, seeming almost proud as he stands by his roommate, grinning like a fool and commending his every score.

Sherlock  _adores_  this blond boy.

Maybe it's the two beers or the steady warmth spreading out to all of his limbs or the adrenaline pumping through him from the game but Sherlock cannot stop himself from beaming like a besotted moron at the blond boy beside him every single time a ball lands in a cup. He's certain he looks ridiculous, certain he's giving himself away entirely but he just cannot bring himself to  _care_. In this moment, he cannot find his mask, he cannot keep his secrets. Not tonight. Tonight, he is in John's inner-circle. Tonight, he is one of John's people.

Tonight, he is  _John's_.

And he's rather proud if he does say so himself. Somehow, some way, he's found the one group of blokes his age that don't actively hate him. That are welcoming and kind and take the piss out of each other constantly all in good fun, and it's like nothing Sherlock has ever experienced before.

It's indescribable.

How?

How had he, Sherlock Holmes, gotten lucky enough to not only snag an unbelievable roommate but how had this unbelievable roommate of his come fully stocked with kind friends who included Sherlock and were friendly to Sherlock and were  _accepting_  of Sherlock?

It doesn't make any sense whatsoever.

But right now, right at this moment, with a little bit of beer in his system and a little high off so many wins in a row, Sherlock doesn't want to analyze it all right now. He doesn't want to second guess his luck and question every little thing that's happened this evening and worry about what comes next. Right now, right in this moment, he wants to just enjoy this. He wants to be present and aware and take in everything that has happened this evening.

Because it has been utterly  _wonderful_.

"Rack 'em up!" Mike shouts to no one in particular as the group decides which two boys are next to challenge the team rocking a hat trick at the table. Paul just taught Sherlock that term and he feels like quite the professional Beer Pong player now. He agrees with Mike, there  _should_  be professional Beer Pong and Mike  _should_  be in it. Hell, Sherlock would even be his teammate! They would  _kill it together_!

Sherlock makes a mental note to tell Mike this later. After he stops staring down his adorable roommate who is currently resetting the cups on their side in perfect lines, tapping and turning cups to touch just so in that borderline obsessive compulsive way that Sherlock finds rather endearing. Yes, after he watches John for a moment longer, he will  _definitely_  tell Mike that they are  _absolutely_  going pro.

"I got it," John grins up at Sherlock, clearly noticing the staring going on. Sherlock doesn't care. John is wonderful to look at. He should know. Tossing a nod toward the kitchen, John laughs. "Wanna grab more beers, Champ?"

"On it," Sherlock nods, already making his way to the kitchen to avoid John seeing the blush creeping onto his cheeks at the nickname. The staring is okay. The staring is f _ine_. The blushing is absolutely  _not_. Not okay. John  _cannot_ see the blushing. It's silly really, blushing at the nickname. A nickname so simple and obvious and yet it practically tickles Sherlock's insides with glee, always a glutton for John's attention in any capacity, especially one where John is in awe of him. It warms every fiber of his being and he finds himself still grinning as he pulls the sliding glass door open that leads out to the patio, feeling like he could walk on air at how  _spectacular_  this night is.

"Beers got moved to the fridge," Victor calls from the entry of the kitchen just as Sherlock manages to pry the door fully open. "Sorry, forgot to say."

"Ah," Sherlock shrugs, yanking the door closed again. "Thanks."

"Sure thing," Victor says with a shrug as Sherlock turns back to the kitchen. "You look good out there."

The redness in his cheeks hasn't dissipated from John's attention and Sherlock ducks his head into the fridge to avoid Victor seeing it. No one can know John makes him blush. That is one secret he needs to keep safe tonight. Sherlock Holmes does not blush. Ever. "Oh, um… thanks," he mumbles, gathering a few cans into his arms, eager to get back to his game and his teammate and his John.

"You know, I was going to ask you to be my partner," Victor murmurs from behind him. "I thought we'd make a good team."

Frowning as he reaches for the last beer, Sherlock says, "Really? Why?"

Huffing a laugh, Victor is smiling at him as he turns around. "I dunno," he mutters, lips twitching up into a smile, "we do well together in Chemistry. Or at least I do. I've learned so much from you this past week, I was seriously struggling before we got paired up."

Tipping his head to the point, Sherlock does have to agree. Victor is rubbish with equations. He can definitely use all the help he can get. "Fair point."

A small laugh emits itself from Victor's mouth before he reaches for one of the many bottles scattered across the counter top, some form of alcohol filling a fourth of it. "How about a round of shots for us Chemistry partners? You like rum?"

"I- yeah," Sherlock stammers, swallowing thickly as he eyes the dark liquor sloshing around inside the glass bottle. He isn't sure if he likes rum. Not at all. But he doesn't want to look like a fool. Besides, he's sure he can take it. He's had no problems downing two full beers tonight. Hard alcohol can't be  _that_  bad, right? And the night has been going  _so well_.  _Don't fuck it up now, Holmes._ "Sure, rum sounds great."

Plucking two small, clear shot glasses from one of the cabinets, Victor sets about filling each to the brim, just narrowly avoiding it spilling over the edges. Biting his lip to keep the nerves at bay, Sherlock confidently steps up to the counter, sets the beers down and and picks up the now full glass, eyeing is carefully, attempting to gauge how large of a swallow will be required to put back this much liquid. Victor raises his own shot glass beside him and smirks. "To Chemistry?"

Nodding and clinking his glass in cheers, the curly-haired boy takes a single, deep breath before bringing the glass to his lips and throwing his head back as he downs it in a single gulp.

It burns like liquid fire going down his throat, simultaneously warming his chest and spreading to his limbs rather quickly, heating his already pleasant warmth to a moderate sizzle. He blinks, attempting to steady himself, knitting his brow together in concentration. It's an odd sensation, though not altogether unpleasant, simply heightening his already semi-buzz. He feels light as a feather.

It's nice.

"Another?" He just registers his chemistry partner asking and glances down to see the shot glasses filled anew.

"Sure," he mumbles and swipes his off the counter, not waiting for another cheers and tossing it back.

This one burns less.

"One more!" Victor's voice booms in his ear, another shot is pressed into his hand and Sherlock downs that, too.

He hardly even tastes this one at all.

"Alright?" Victor pats his shoulder and Sherlock nods, the movement a bit sluggish as the rest of him seems to move slowly to catch up.

"I'm good," he mutters, clumsily gathering the beers as his world tips just slightly. "I've gotta get back… to the… game."

"Wait," Victor's suddenly in front of him, reaching for the cans in his hand. "Hang out a second. We can do another shot."

"Oh, that… that's okay," the genius just barely avoids garbling, his mouth somehow feeling much looser, everything seeming to move much slower. "I think… I think I'm good."

He doesn't like this feeling. He doesn't like it  _at all_. His thoughts are slow, so unbelievably slow and his head feels a bit light, like he could float away at any second.

He doesn't feel in control of himself. Not his mind, not his body, not anything.

He doesn't like it.

"I think I'd better… I think I'd better not," he tries again, slow-blinking down to the counter, where the beer cans seem to have reappeared, no longer in his arms. When had that happened?

"Come on," Victor laughs. "Don't be boring. You can handle another."

"No, really," Sherlock attempts again, his sight now twitching like his eyes can't stay still. He shakes his head, attempting to steady his gaze.

Bad idea.

His entire brain seems to tumble around his skull as the counter swims in front of him, giving his stomach a rather telling roll as the contents sits uneasily. "Shit," he mumbles, gripping the counter to stabilize himself. He's a bit terrified to move, his body feeling slow, and the idea of walking is out of the question as he practically stumbles just standing still.

He doesn't know how much time has passed as he attempts to focus, sight only seeming to get worse as he stands as still as he can, everything in his body lurching at any tiny movement. Nausea washes over him every time he blinks, everything tilting just slightly when he opens his eyes.

He wants to go home.

And how on earth is he going to get there in the state he's in?

"Alright, what are you up to in here that is taking  _forever_?" A familiar and soothing and  _welcomed_  voice suddenly fills the air around him and it takes every effort he has left not to spin around and wrap his arms around the body that belongs to that voice, so unbelievably happy to hear from the one person he always wants to hear from, who can actually make sure he gets home safe, the one person that _is_  safe.

 _John_.

Oh, John.

The perfect night. That's what they'd had, the most perfect, wonderful night and Sherlock has  _ruined_  it. Sherlock has ruined  _everything_.

"People are waiting for the champion to get back and kick some- Sherlock? Hey, are you okay?"

A hand comes down on his shoulder blade and shocks the genius slightly, making him stumble where he stands and close his eyes against the spinning world around him, the entire contents of his body lurching harshly upward.

"Shit, are you-… Oh Christ, did you take a  _shot_?"

"He's fine," Victor, who apparently is still here, responds with a sniff. "A few shots aren't going to kill him."

"A  _few_?" Greg's voice thunders, scolding Victor with his Captain's tone as John's hand remains on Sherlock's back. "Jesus, he's never had alcohol before, you idiot."

"Sure he has," Victor replies flippantly. "He's fine."

"Sherlock, can you look at me?" John's voice is so tender, so full of concern that Sherlock can't help but obey, opening his eyes to glance at his roommate, to apologize with his gaze, to tell him he's so terribly sorry for getting into this mess, for getting this drunk, for fucking coming to this party in the  _first_ place, everything he can't say with just his eyes for fear of the contents of his stomach appearing if he opens his mouth.

And immediately regrets it as John's precious features blur harshly in his vision, seeming unable to stay in one place in his line of sight. He shuts his eyes again. "I need to go home," he mutters so quietly only John can hear. He hopes, anyway.

"Okay," John murmurs with a soft rub to Sherlock's upper back. "Okay, let's go home."

"You can stay if you want," Sherlock garbles half-heartedly, wanting nothing more than to be back at home, back in their room,  _their_  room that only feels like home when John is in it as well. "I can make it on my own."

"Like hell you can," John scoffs, pressing his fingers into Sherlock's skin and urging him upright. "Come on."

Nodding minutely, the movement causing his brain to lurch to the side of head, Sherlock steadies himself enough to let go of the countertop. Pinching his eyes shut, he takes a deep breath before opening them again to the twisted sight around him, blinking in an attempt to settle his vision and clear away the unsteadiness, barely able to bloody  _see_  as his eyes seem to shake.

An arm comes up beneath his hand, a forearm to be exact,  _John's_  forearm. "Hold on if you need to," John breathes beside him, still close, still soft and gentle and caring.

Gratitude stings the back of Sherlock's throat.

"Move," John barks much louder at the figure in front of them blocking their way and Sherlock only realizes it's Victor as they pass by, deducing from the size of the boy in the doorway.

"Alright, alright," the boy steps off to the side, raising his hands in defense. "Sorry. Although, I think you all are overreacting. He's fine, aren't you, Sherlock-"

"Yeah, I highly suggest you shut the fuck up before one of us socks you in the face, thanks," Greg growls from behind them, though Sherlock is hardly paying attention, doing his best to shrink down into nothing as they make their way back through the house, much like he had when they first came in, gripping John's arm with as much strength as he can muster to keep himself from falling face-first into the carpet.

"Well, it isn't  _my_ fault he can't hold his liquor," Victor's voice is getting further away as John, slow and steady and so unbelievably patient, guides Sherlock by the hand through a rather roundabout way, avoiding the most populated rooms to make it to the front door.

"Why do you think we were only letting him drink beer all night?" Greg bellows back, anger tinting his every word.

"Well I didn't  _know_  that's what you were doing!"

"Well maybe you should have, oh I don't know,  _asked_  someone before you started pouring shots down his throat!"

"He took them willingly!"

"Listen, you little fucker, that bloke is someone very  _important_ to someone who is  _very_  important to me so don't you sit here and argue with me about-"

And just like that, the voices fade to nothing but a dull, garbled roar behind a closed door, shutting out the rest of Greg's sentence and the thought process Sherlock was attempting to make about the conversation at hand.

Which promptly disappears entirely as a cool, welcoming breeze hits his face briskly, taking the edge off Sherlock's sharp nausea, settling him back a bit into the pleasant drunk he'd been on the first shot, before everything had gone wobbly.

Thank god.

He thought he'd be tossing those shots right back up only moments ago-

And suddenly the calm in his gut swirls its way back up viciously, twisting and turning Sherlock's stomach and head and chest, winding him up tightly and sweeping him away in a harsh nausea spell.

And then-

"John-"

"Shit-"

Turning as hard as he can away from the kind boy guiding him out onto the front porch and waving a hand out to keep him far enough away, Sherlock opens his eyes long enough to see a giant green fern laying beside the cement steps.

Close enough.

He takes one large step, bends over at the waist and vomits violently straight into it.

He doesn't know how long it lasts. He doesn't know how many times he heaves. He doesn't know if he'll be able to walk after this.

All he knows is there is a single, constant point of warm contact between his shoulder blades the entire time as he coughs and pitches forward time after time, attempting to focus solely on John Watson's hand on his back while his body attempts to turn itself inside out.

It's grounding.

It keeps him from curling forward into a pathetic, sobbing mess and possibly spending the night on this porch.

He catches little snippets of warm words being murmured to him as he empties his stomach again and again, trying to vomit quietly so he can hear exactly what John is saying to him in his wonderfully lulling tone.

"There we go, that's it," that kind, soothing tenor is crooning softly into his ear, palm holding fast to his back. "There we are now. There we go," over and over, never failing to respond after every heave, assuring Sherlock that it's alright, that everything is alright, that this little episode is nothing to worry about, that it's fine, it's all fine.

Tears prickle the corners of Sherlock's eyes, utter humiliation and complete gratitude warring for dominance inside of him, practically tearing him in two with the strength of each emotion rocking his slender body as he coughs up more sharp liquid, the fiery bite of the alcohol still present in the taste on the way back up.

Finally, _finally_ , the storm within his stomach calms itself, the last roll of unsettled alcohol settling to a dull gurgle deep in his belly, and Sherlock takes a deep breath, wiping the escaped tears from his cheeks and blinking his damp eyes open, only to find himself crouching down on the cement.

What's more bizarre is he finds John crouching beside him.

"Alright?" John questions with a soft pat to his back.

And surprisingly, Sherlock can nod. He's still a bit dizzy and still a bit drunk but it's better, the world no longer tilting to the side.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, too ashamed to look up.

"You have nothing to apologize for," John whispers beside him. "Come on. Let's get you home."

Sherlock's hand scrabbles for purchase on John's steady form, fingers landing on his shoulder and swaying into him, holding on for dear life as he goes to stand. John proves to be a steady anchor as he takes unsteady steps down the stairs of the porch, gripping onto hard muscle beneath his fingers. When both his feet hit the ground, he lets out a relieved breath. "Thank you," he whispers into John's ear as his cheeks heat at the fact that he can hardly  _walk_ on his own, his head starting to pound as they make their way down the sidewalk.

"No need to thank me," John's arm comes up to wrap around his waist, securing him to his side tightly and hauling him forward steadily. "I just want to be sure you're okay."

He's not okay. He's  _far_  from okay. He's never felt so unbelievably stupid in his life. He knows what alcohol does. He knows the affects it has on people who've never drunk it. He's  _smarter_  than this. No one forced it down his throat. He drank it willingly even though he  _knew_.

He's never been so embarrassed in his entire life, and that includes the first time he'd been shoved into a broom closet and locked inside for several hours. Of course that would never happen now. Sherlock is a master lock picker now.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again leaning heavily on John as his limbs continue to fight every step he takes. "I'm so sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for," John whispers back and Sherlock swears his grip tightens on Sherlock's hip. "Let's just get home, okay? It's alright."

"Okay, John," he nods, stumbling along the sidewalk as his vision wobbles slightly around the edges. He's going to be lucky if he makes it home without getting sick again.

"If you need to throw up, let me know," John says beside him kindly. "It's alright, okay? Nothing to be ashamed of. It'll only make you feel better."

"N-no I… I'm okay."  _For now_ , he tacks on internally. He can't be sure he won't vomit later after this little trek home, considering how his stomach keeps rolling, though the urgency of it has dulled to a slow tumble, simply reminding Sherlock that's its still unsettled and perhaps debating how it would like to go about fixing it, not giving the genius an option in the least.

He's at the mercy of his transport and he  _hates_  it.

He isn't sure if it's the alcohol or the proximity to John, but whatever it is it's making him feel rather ill and he'd prefer it to stop immediately before he does toss his cookies everywhere all over again.

Although, John is so cozy beside him. He's warm and soft and Sherlock leans a bit more into him, getting just a bit closer. This may be the last time he gets to be this close to John, considering he's recently taken a vow to never  _ever_  drink like that again and he can't picture another scenario that John would willing cuddle him so he'll take what he can get. "You're so warm." The alcohol is clearly still prevalent in Sherlock's bloodstream seeing as that little comment and this little snuggling session doesn't seem one bit odd to the boy's drunk brain.

"Yeah, we should have worn jackets, it's gotten colder since we arrived," John agrees and Sherlock  _swears_  he pulls him closer, strong fingers tugging ever so gently to keep him near.

Pressing his cheek to John's hair, the genius frowns. "I don't need a jacket," he garbles slightly, the smell of blond fringe in his nose giving him a heady, pleasant feeling. "You're warm enough."

A soft huff of laughter escapes the boy beside him. "Alright, you drunk arse, let's get you home."

Somehow, within what feels like a rather short time, they make it back to their dorm room, Sherlock propped up against John as he fishes his keys out of his pocket and shoving them through the lock before throwing open the door.

They stumble inside together, and Sherlock lunges for his bed, grateful that he is no longer required to walk somewhat on his own. He's already been humiliated enough tonight as it is.

"Alright, let's get you settled," John is suddenly by his side, or maybe still by his side, Sherlock can't be sure as his focus had been solely on his mattress, holding him up before Sherlock can crash and burn into his bed. The blond boy pulls back the sheets while holding Sherlock to him with just an arm looped around his hips, getting his bed settled before gently pushing him down to sit. "Shoes," John murmurs as the curly-haired boy sits heavily on the edge of his bed, staring down at the top of that blond head where John is kneeling before him, wrapping a hand around his left heel and tugging his foot free from his shoe before moving to the other.

Sherlock is attempting to watch, hunched over, mesmerized by John's clever fingers on his ankles and shoes, removing each item so efficiently and smoothly, so effortlessly. His watery eyes are watching so intently he doesn't register his balance is off before he's tipping forward.

"Woah," he breathes, hands coming out just in time to steady himself on John's shoulders, curling around the shorter boy's frame slightly. "Sorry," he mumbles with a giggle, but he doesn't remove his hands, not yet, not when he can feel John's strong muscles shifting beneath his hands.

He can  _feel_ his roommate's shoulders shake under his palms as the boy below him laughs. "Careful there," he chuckles, glancing up to grin at his dorm mate, features soft and lovely and tinted a bit red from the chill of the night, darkened blue eyes swimming with such depth it takes Sherlock's breath away momentarily.

It's such a beautiful thing, the smile on John's face. It's unfair how beautiful it is. It's  _dazzling_. He has an overwhelming need to reach out and touch that smile, lay his fingers against those lips and feel them stretch into that perfect grin he can never get enough of. He has the most gorgeous roommate on campus. He has the most gorgeous roommate in the  _world_.

And it almost slips right out of his mouth. It almost comes tumbling out at top speed, Sherlock's lips parting to allow the words to come on out, lay bare everything he's been keeping hidden, because exclaiming John's beauty to the boy himself would rather show his hand quite spectacularly now, wouldn't it?

Instead, Sherlock makes another announcement. "I'm hungry."

"Shit, I know," John shakes his head as he stands, Sherlock now free of his shoes and John beneath his hands, frowning slightly at the loss of contact and just barely refraining himself from reaching for the blond again to pull him back down. "I'm sorry I didn't get us dinner before, I should have, it would have helped with digesting the alcohol." He turns back to his own bed, mumbling, "Although I was unaware Victor fucking Trevor was going to be feeding you shots all night."

"It wasn't all night," Sherlock frowns at John's back. "Just the… end. Victor just poured the shots. And then I drank them. Three of them. I drank three shots. And Victor poured them. Victor has nice clothes."

Brows pinched in confusion at his own scattered thoughts, Sherlock flops back against his pillow and digs his toes under his blankets, warmth suddenly enveloping his rather chilly body now that he thinks about it, eyelids growing heavy from all the activity of the evening and the heat surrounding him.

"Nice clothes?" John is suddenly beside his bed again, Sherlock can tell by the distance of his voice. He cracks an eye open to peer up at the rugby player. "What, you mean better than my jumpers you want to burn?"

Eyes blowing wide, or as wide as they can go in their current state, Sherlock attempts to reach for his roommate, though his limbs feel heavy as cement and he's certain he doesn't even move. "No!" he cries, though it comes out hoarse and odd against his rather tender throat, shaking his aching head back and forth, panic seizing his chest as his entire body seems to melt into the bed. No, he can't sleep now. Not now. Not when John needs to know how lovely his jumpers are. How lovely  _he_  is. John needs to know. John  _needs to know_. "No, no, John, I would  _never_ -"

"Shh, hey, relax," the blond boy looms a bit closer, worry creasing his face, "I was teasing. It's okay. Settle down."

Blinking lazily up at his roommate, Sherlock does settle almost immediately, his roommate's proximity so soothing and nice and he's again struck by John's beauty, his short stature doing nothing to hinder the obviousness of his strong body, his powerful figure that practically carried a boy twice his size home this evening, his muscles rippling under Sherlock's hands as he'd clutched to him while attempting to hobble home.

"But… John…" Sherlock tries again though his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. But John should know. John  _needs_  to know.

"Hush," John murmurs. "It's alright."

The comforter around him seems to warm him even more so, making him feel loopy and drowsy and content, snuggled up in his bed in his home because this  _is_  his home, with his  _wonderful_ roommate who gets his drunk arse to safety and takes off his shoes and tucks him in and looks at him with concern and tells him to settle down and tells him it's alright and feeds him dinner and introduces him to his friends and  _takes care_  of him.

Maybe it _is_  alright.

He's safe. He's warm. He's with John.

This, Sherlock thinks, must be what happiness feels like.

John, who apparently is unable to read minds, cocks an amused eyebrow at him. "Sherlock?" he questions, though his voice sounds… a bit far away. Blinking against heavy eyelids, the curly-haired boy notices John's figure is getting a bit blurry and distance as sleep tugs at the corners of Sherlock's mind, creeping up and over him like an additional blanket to his already thick comforter.

"Hey," John is suddenly close again and Sherlock swears he feels a hand on his forehead and fingers brush through his curls. He thinks. He can't tell since his eyes are shut and he's not sure if he's imagining it or not but  _Christ_ it feels so nice whether it's real or not. "I'll put some water by your bed, okay?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock opens his mouth to decline, to say thank you, to apologize once more for being a completely arsed idiot, to tell John he appreciates him so much, to tell him Victor's stupid clothing have  _nothing_  on John's fuzzy jumpers, to tell John he is bloody  _perfect_.

Instead, with his eyes sealed shut, the warmth of the blankets soothing his wobbly mind and the imaginary hand in his hair, Sherlock attempts one last time to whisper, "You are beautiful, John," before sleep drags him under completely, unaware if he's succeeded or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING! 
> 
> We're having a constant lovefest on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come join in!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Once again, a very very special thanks to ishaveforsherl, you are my guiding light, darling, THANK YOU for everything you do for me!_  

He'd tried to deny it.

Really, he had.

He'd been doing a miserable job of it, of course, but he had made a solid attempt at shoving his feelings way down into the deepest, darkest part of himself, pushing them away into hiding, ignoring them and hurrying them back down into their denial cave every time they attempted to sneak their way out.

He'd done his due diligence.

So why in the bloody hell had an adorably drunken, stumbling, vomiting Sherlock undone all that fine squashing and shoving and smothering? Why had finally getting Sherlock Holmes out of their godforsaken dorm room and into the real world done a solid number on all of John's hard work?

John would prefer not to delve too deeply into what exactly had gone wrong that evening. He would prefer to close his metaphorical eyes to all things concerning his confusing roommate and his confusing feelings and his confusing relationship with the boy he lives with but clearly that isn't an option seeing as it's all he does now. It's all he fucking _does_ , think and ponder and analyze in painfully tedious detail every single one of their interactions, spending hours upon hours going over everything with a fine tooth comb, examining it from every angle, practically losing his damn mind.

And it's all because that adorably drunken, red-faced, curly-haired boy that lives in his room had mumbled four soft-spoken, sleepy words and promptly devastated John Watson's entire worldview.

_You are beautiful, John._

Jesus, those four words. That sentence. It's _haunting_ him.

It's haunting his thoughts, it's haunting his dreams, it's haunting his bloody _life_. Four words. Four simple words that mean hardly anything separately but when stringed together in that order, they mean... they could mean...

Christ, what _do_ they mean?

Because they _cannot_ mean what John Watson so _desperately_ wants them to mean. They _cannot_ mean what John Watson _prays_ they mean. It's ridiculous.

Practically impossible.

Sherlock Holmes is not interested in John Watson that way.

Not at all.

Right?

Jesus, he is _losing_ it. Of all the things that are driving him right around the twist from last weekend's ill-fated party, there are two things that John cannot stop thinking about.

The first being that he would love nothing more than to punch Victor Trevor square in the face.

And the second being that Sherlock Holmes just might really believe that John Watson is beautiful.

That did happen, didn't it? That gorgeous boy with that _gorgeous_ mouth had really murmured those four words, hadn't he?

Please, god, don't let that have been a dream. Please. _Please_.

John isn't altogether sure what he'd do if he found out it had been some figment of his imagination, some drunken hallucination, some creation of something his mind so eagerly wanted.

But John hadn't been drunk. And John is almost positive he had been of sound mind that evening. Dragging home a grown boy will do that to a bloke. He'd been focused and worried and slightly furious though he'd left most of his anger at the door of the house that still currently held Victor fucking Trevor within its walls.

But he's certain he hadn't conjured up dark curls splayed across a pillow and long black eyelashes fluttering against pale cheeks and brows furrowing in concern and a perfect cupid's bow of a mouth parting gently to form four words that had truly never crossed the blond boy's mind in his life.

No one has ever called John Watson beautiful. Not ever.

And it had kept him up for the rest of that night.

Not that that was difficult to do since Sherlock had been lying in the bed across from his practically sawing logs with the snores reverberating from his mouth, though John had to admit he'd have rather listen to Sherlock snore and snuffle and fuss in his sleep rather than panic every few minutes that he'd stopped breathing if silence had fallen.

Besides, it had given John hours upon hours to think.

Or, more accurately, it gave John hours upon hours to spin uselessly around his head in circles, questioning and wondering and panicking, and even after all that he still had no conclusion. He still had no plan.

So when Sherlock had rolled over onto his side and blinked his pretty, albeit glassy, eyes open and narrowed in on John immediately, the blond boy had gone still in terror, mind racing to sort out if Sherlock remembered the moment from the night before that had had John up all night.

The curly-haired boy had given him no indication one way or the other before he'd rolled himself out of bed and schlepped off to the showers, hand clutching his head along with a low moan of agony.

John hadn't had the heart to tell him how bloody awful hangovers were.

And then the moment to ask about the comment had passed and things had gone back to normal.

Or, whatever it is John and Sherlock have. Normal doesn't quite seem like the right word.

Although, John feels now that he cannot deny the fact that something has definitely shifted in the last week since the night of the party. Either that, or his mind has gone completely and utterly insane in the wake of that incredible comment uttered from the mouth of the boy he's become so increasingly attached to.

But now, as he lays beneath a steal bar, back flat against the matted bench that smells faintly of sweat from the rest of the team currently doing their ritual Friday afternoon light circuit training before their rugby match the following day, John's mind wanders away from the weight in his hands as he presses the bar up and away from his chest, and onto the past week.

Maybe it was naïve to think everything would sort itself out once John got Sherlock out of their room, but the blond really did believe that the night he and Greg had convinced Sherlock to attend the party. He'd thought if that genius boy could only see how wonderful the rugby team was, see how great it could be to have a group of friends who were kind and caring, see that John and all the rest of the boys _wanted_ him there, that things would just kind of come together naturally.

What John hadn't been prepared for _at all_ was the fact that Sherlock Holmes was _unbearably_ awkward in a social setting. He'd gone practically radio silent the moment they'd entered the house, which John had to admit was rather impressive seeing as Sherlock hardly shut up while in their room, going on and on about experiments and classes and how ridiculous John's sleeping habits were – because apparently someone sleeping eight hours a night was entirely unacceptable in Sherlock's world.

So watching that normally babbling boy go completely mute was a bit upsetting. The fact that Sherlock couldn't be himself in public, didn't feel comfortable enough around other people in general made something ache harshly in John's chest. Greg's words from practice earlier that day had rattled around his skull as he watched Sherlock move quietly out of the way when they'd approached the team in the kitchen, not uttering a single word, barely making eye-contact, attempting to make himself scarce and unobtrusive.

John had absolutely _hated_ it.

Sherlock Holmes is the _definition_ of obtrusive. He's brash and snappish and absolutely fantastic and whoever the fuck had made him feel like he wasn't worth a dime was, John had decided, the worst human being in the world. Watching his brilliant, fascinating roommate curl in on himself slightly as though attempting to go invisible altogether had made John feel fiercely protective, wanting nothing more than to slip an arm around his waist and pull him close, hold him tightly and tell him that he was welcome here, that these people would be kind to him, that whoever had been cruel to him in the past were absolutely _nothing_ and Sherlock Holmes was absolutely _everything_.

Thank god for the rugby boys. John hadn't been sure he'd make it through the night without doing something irreparably stupid like, for example, getting gloriously drunk and spilling his sentimental guts to his roommate in a sloppy fashion while simultaneously coming off as though he'd pitied and felt sorry for Sherlock. John _had_ felt a bit sad for his friend but letting the genius boy know that would break whatever unspoken bond they'd formed over the last few weeks and John found that option entirely unacceptable.

So when the team stepped up and made Sherlock a part of the group immediately, John had never been so grateful for a group of young men before. He really had hit the jackpot with these boys and he'd made a mental note to express his gratitude later when Sherlock wasn't around. He'd made a point to thank Mike later in the week in particular for his part – which Mike of course had laughed at, telling John he had nothing to thank him for, that he'd really liked Sherlock and that John should bring him more often. There are no words for how appreciative John is of that, nor for the gratitude he has for Greg Lestrade, who clearly prepped the team good and proper for the arrival of Sherlock, right down to the fact that feeding him alcohol would not be the goal of the evening. They'd respected that so thoroughly without being obvious and John had appreciated them fiercely for it. Of course, the same could not be said for Victor Trevor.

His team had been wonderful, they'd saved the damn night as far as John was concerned. And once Sherlock had gotten comfortable finally, once the genius saw how truly accepted and wanted he was the night had only gotten better and better.

And John wishes so much that that was it. He wishes that was all there was to it. That the night had ended that way, that he'd walked home with a slight buzz beside his mad roommate laughing and chatting and secretly pleased with a very happy Sherlock Holmes.

But that hadn't been the case, now had it? That hadn't been the case _at all_.

John is still boiling over it, even a week later. Seven days has done nothing to soothe the vicious hatred he has toward a single bloke, a fury so sharp it blurs John's vision a bit every single time his name races across the blond's thoughts.

As an afterthought, John supposes maybe he should be thanking Victor for giving him a reason to be close to Sherlock. He'd had a reason to touch him, to rub his back soothingly, to hold him close all the way home, to take care of him.

Maybe John should be pleased about that.

But he wasn't then and he's not now, because even if Victor pouring shots down Sherlock's throat had given John a reason to protect him, the blond could never appreciate it. Not when Sherlock had been so hurt. Not when Sherlock had been so _scared_.

It had broken something in John. It had shattered something in his chest, something he'd been so damn careful not to let break, something he'd been balancing vigilantly within himself to keep it from destroying him altogether. But all that hard work had been all for not as John watched those ever-changing eyes glaze over, terror racing across his features, panic at being entirely out of control of his body. The vomiting had helped but still, John knew; Sherlock never _ever_ wanted to be out of control of himself like that.

As chaotic and wild and borderline insane his roommate might be, there is one thing Sherlock takes care of very diligently; his mind. He protects his thoughts and his feelings and every fact he's ever obtained very carefully within his head. It didn't take a genius to sort out just how attentive Sherlock is to his brain – it is his favorite thing about himself, if the way he flaunts it to all attentive parties is any indicator. John knows how important Sherlock's mind is to him and to see him not be completely in control of it may have scared John as much as it scared Sherlock.

The fury at the boy who'd caused his incredible roommate to lose himself had subsided a bit as they'd walked him. The cool air in his lungs, the warm body beside his… it had been grounding. Calming. And as Sherlock gained more control of himself, it had been rather delightful by the time they'd returned to the room.

But John cannot deny the fact that being that close to Sherlock, being in his personal space, holding him so close… it's done something to John's boundaries and, if his mind isn't playing tricks on him, he's positive that the same can be said for his genius dormmate.

There has been… touching.

In the last seven days, John is _certain_ his imagination isn't running wild, he's certain he isn't missing the fact that he and Sherlock graze arms or legs or several other body parts multiple times a day. He's certain that Sherlock ventures to his side of the room more often than ever before, positive that the genius leans over his shoulder to look at his computer and nudges past him and sits far closer to him than he has ever done in the past month and a half.

They seem to gravitate toward each other more, no longer drawing a line down the center of their room and staying safely on either side, no, there are hardly boundaries now. Sherlock's fear of being seen outside of the dorm with John has seemed to all but disappeared as well for now they leave together, occasionally grab lunch together, catch up with each other on campus throughout the day.

And there is definitely… _touching_.

And John is _sure_ that he isn't the only one to notice. He's sure that he's seen the blood race up Sherlock's neck and stain his porcelain-like face when their hands graze as they walk beside each other. He's sure he's caught Sherlock looking away far too quickly when John's breath ghosts across his cheek when the blond turns to face him where he's peering over John's shoulder. He's sure Sherlock notices as much as John does.

But they don't speak about it.

They don't discuss their closeness, they don't talk about what it means, and they certainly don't acknowledge that anything has changed.

But things have changed.

Haven't they?

_You are beautiful, John._

Yes, things have _definitely_ changed.

For John, anyway.

What John doesn't know is in what direction they've changed to. Have they gotten closer as friends? Is there something more there? Is Sherlock in the same confused boat as John?

The blond has no idea. Why is everything so bloody _confusing_ when it comes to Sherlock Holmes?

"Easy there, Johnny," Greg peers over him as John heaves the bar back up onto the rack, sweat pouring down his temples as he pants up toward the ceiling, "this is supposed to be a light day. I need you fresh for the game tomorrow."

"Sorry," John mumbles, swinging his leg over the bench to stand and grabbing a towel from the rack to wipe his face. "Got lost in my head for a minute."

"Take a break and spot me?" Greg slides into the space John was just occupying and John takes his place behind the bench.

"You out of the doghouse yet, mate?" John asks, assisting Greg with lifting the bar from the rack lightly with just his fingertips.

"Not yet," Greg grumbles breathily as he presses the bar up from his chest. "Myc is still furious with me. Says he doesn't trust me anymore with, and I quote, 'Sherlock's well-being.' I don't think I'll be getting out anytime soon."

"But it wasn't your fault," John argues, "You certainly weren't the one to give him a few shots of hard liquor."

"Yeah but I should have been watching him."

"He's not a puppy, Greg, or a child. He's legally an adult and a rather intelligent one at that. He can make his own decisions." It's the same argument John uses in his head every time he thinks about that night and how he could have stopped it when the guilt gets to be too much. What would have happened to Sherlock if John hadn't been there? Would anyone have sat with him while he threw up into the bushes? Would anyone have told him it was going to be alright? Would anyone have gotten him home safely? Or would Victor had just poured more shots down his throat until Sherlock couldn't stand and then… and then what?

"See, Johnny, _you_ know that. And _I_ know that. But trying to tell _Mycroft_ that is like telling a brick wall. He doesn't hear it and he doesn't get it. He still sees Sherlock as a young boy. He practically raised him, you know. It's hard to let that go. Especially after the hell Sherlock went through in secondary school-"

"Right," John cuts him off, having no interest in hearing any more about Sherlock's painful teenage years. "I guess that happens when you're the older brother."

"Exactly," Greg nods, finishing up his reps and dropping the bar noisily onto the rack. "Anyway, I won't be free from the wrath of Myc for some time I think. He told me he's not coming to the game tomorrow, even though _I_ was the one who told him not to come in the first place since it's four hours away. But he spun it the way he spins everything to make it sound like his idea. Said he's going to try to spend some quality time with his brother and not his untrustworthy boyfriend."

John snorts. "Sherlock will love that."

Shooting him a grin, Greg laughs with a shake of his head. "Right? But who knows, maybe it'll help my case. Remind Myc what a pain in the arse his brother is and realize that his anger should be focused on _Sherlock_ and not me."

"Turning brothers against each other for the sake of your relationship?" John raises a judgmental eyebrow at his friend. "I thought you were better than that."

"Oh please, the Holmes brothers need no help from me to get at each other's throats."

John laughs hardily, "Too true."

"Hey guys."

John and Greg both turn to find Paul shuffling in the door, shifting his bag on his shoulder looking a bit uncomfortable. The same look he's been sporting for the last week. An uncertain look. A guilt-ridden look.

John takes pity on him yet again, smiling at him warmly. "Hey Paul." It isn't Paul's fault that his roommate is a tosser and John hates that his teammate feels that way. He didn't do anything wrong. "How goes it?"

"Uh- alright," Paul shrugs, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck, refusing to meet his teammate's eyes.

Frowning, John glances at Greg who shrugs in response and just as John turns back to tell Paul yet again that no one is angry with him, that it wasn't him who pressured Sherlock into drinking, that it's all fine, _that's_ when he his brain decides to register Paul still holding the door open of which he came in, eyes still trained on the floor.

And before he can even ask a question to John's shock, and utter horror, Victor Trevor walks in through the opening, dressed in sweats and a hoodie and somehow still looking posh, and, if John isn't mistaken, rather smug, seeming quite pleased with himself.

Seven days has done nothing to cool John's bitter dislike towards this vile human-being.

Victor Trevor.

His name alone makes John's skin crawl and the sight of him is ten times worse, making the blond's skin practically vibrate with rage.

John Watson didn't like Victor Trevor from the moment he'd laid eyes on him. Posh as all hell and arrogant as fuck without saying a single sodding word, John had been instantly irritated staring up into annoyingly pretty eyes and nicely coiffed hair. He'd hated the sleek eyebrow raise of a self-assured bastard, he'd hated the pulled-back shoulders and subtle posturing the boy had presented, he'd hated the too-tight clothing and rancid smell of too much cologne the bloke had obviously drenched himself in.

But most of all, as selfish and ridiculous as this sounds, John hated the way emerald green eyes had narrowed in on Sherlock Holmes with such laser focus and intent. Like Victor had some sort of intentions for the genius boy. Like Victor was _worthy_ of having intentions for Sherlock. Like it hadn't even crossed Victor's mind that he might not get what he wanted.

And John had _hated_ him with every fiber of his being.

John Watson doesn't hate. He makes it a point _not_ to hate, not to waste any energy on negativity like that, and he's truly never met someone he out and out _hates_.

But that all changed the night he met Victor Trevor. Victor Trevor who was rather irritatingly good-looking and held all the confidence in the world and didn't find anything threatening about John Watson at all if his eager, hungry stare in Sherlock's direction had been any indication. Even then, even in that short, few-sentence interaction, John had known exactly what Victor's intentions were.

Victor didn't give a lick about Sherlock Holmes' big, beautiful brain or his annoying-yet-endearing unsafe and unsanitary experiments, or his quirky sleep habits or his no-nonsense attitude about anything he deemed boring. He didn't care that Sherlock's favorite takeaway was Thai, and he didn't care that Sherlock reads Chemistry textbooks for fun and he didn't care that Sherlock has hardly ever had any friends, much less any type of romantic relationship.

Victor Trevor had made it very clear and obvious what he'd wanted from Sherlock Holmes and none of Sherlock's eccentricities or experiences or even _thoughts_ had entered into the equation. Victor was on the hunt for the genius.

And John's fury had practically burned him from the inside out.

Of course the blond boy isn't stupid enough to believe that his anger toward Victor was based simply on the fact that this boy had no true interest in Sherlock Holmes beyond what was hiding beneath his clothing. John knows what this is.

The raging beast of jealousy has never plagued John before. He hadn't even been sure he knew what jealousy felt like until a week ago.

Now he knows. Now he knows all too clearly. Now he knows that vicious animal lives inside him, growling and clawing a sharp-nailed paw against dirt, ready and waiting to pounce on anything that threatens its territory. Because that beast believes that Sherlock Holmes is its territory. And seeing someone threaten his territory, seeing Victor's sharp eyes trained on Sherlock like he was a piece of meat brought the beast within out of dormancy and into protection mode, having absolutely none of Victor's posturing and side-eyeing and snarky little smirks in John's direction as if to say: _Back off. He's mine._

But then the Pong tournament had started and Victor had stormed off like an overgrown child and John's internal animal had snorted a satisfied breath and sauntered back into its cage, still awake but not nearly as alert.

And John hoped that was the end of it. He'd hoped Victor would simply disappear and never return and refused to think any further ahead. And then the game had started and, if John is entirely honest, he sort of forgot all about Victor Trevor.

Until Sherlock had been gone for just the wrong side of too long. And John had never had to work harder in his entire life to keep himself in check than the moment he'd walked in on his roommate bent over the kitchen counter, swaying on his feet and clenching his hands so hard his knuckles were turning white.

John had had to slam a rather heavy metal door closed on an angry roar from the covetous monster inside of him, sliding several thick deadbolts into place and schooling his features, unwilling to give himself away while he tended to his friend and staunchly ignored the prick looming over them.

Sherlock had been hurt. Victor had _hurt_ him.

And John hated Victor even more, as impossible as he'd thought it was but god help him he did. He _hated_ him.

In his clearer moments, John knows he's being irrational. He knows that people go to uni parties all the time and get completely pissed and they survive just fine and probably do it again the next night. He knows drunk kids at parties aren't unusual things. The rational side of his brain _knows_ this.

The other side of his brain, the side that seems hell-bent on spending all of its free-time daydreaming about and ogling its roommate simply doesn't give a shit about rationality. This side of John's brain is powered by the jealous beast living in his chest and both seem to be on point when they lay eyes on Victor Trevor sauntering into their territory _yet again_.

It's a bit of a terrifying feeling John is experiencing. It's not quite to the level of rage. It's not a chaotic, panicked reaction to seeing the boy he dislikes with such a passion. It's not a messy, possessive feeling, not a childish _that's mine you can't have it_ impulse. It's not a petty jealousy that someone else is interested in Sherlock Holmes, although John supposes there are elements of that as well.

It's more of a quiet fury, this feeling. A hatred simmering just below John's skin as the beast inside him paces back and forth, ready and waiting but not chomping at the bit to pounce, more just biding its time, watching its surroundings carefully with a keen eye but not ready to fly off the handle.

It's a very clear anger. John is not blinded by his temper or jealousy. If anything, he's leveled off by it. He's cool and collected, put together just fine on the outside while calculating on the inside. His internal flags are, yet again, raising themselves in the face of Victor Trevor. There is something distinctly off about the boy that John has felt since he laid eyes on him and John has no time for all-consuming, threatening rage. What good would that do? No, he needs to be alert and aware of what's going on. And his body is all too willing to comply.

Which is a scary thing all on its own because it's proving to the blond boy just how deeply seated his feelings are for the mad genius living in his room. It only clarifies all of John's fears of how important Sherlock has become to him. John has no interest in flipping out like a lunatic in the face of Victor Trevor. There are bits of jealousy, of course there are but it's more than that when he looks in the eyes of that posh bastard. It's more than just a simple envy that he too gets to be close to Sherlock and gets to spend time with Sherlock and somehow managed to get Sherlock to trust him enough to get a few drinks in him.

It's less of a petty bitterness and more of a pure, straight-forward anger. An anger that Victor Trevor thinks he's worth a moment of Sherlock Holmes' time. An anger that Victor doesn't seem to know how bloody incredible Sherlock is. An anger that Victor saw fit to get the curly-haired genius absolutely wasted for no apparent reason other than for a laugh, opting to feed him shots instead of have a goddamn conversation with him.

Didn't he see? Didn't he understand? Didn't he _get it_?

Glaring daggers, John hopes his thoughts are clear. _How could you not want to_ know _Sherlock Holmes, you fucking prick?_

Looking perfectly at ease, as though he isn't currently waltzing into the lion's den if Greg bristling beside John is any indication, Victor's eyes land on the blond rugby player with all the casualty in the world.

And has the audacity to fucking _smile_.

John's blood immediately begins to skyrocket from simmering to boiling, blue eyes alighting with furious fire.

Lips curling up into what becomes the fakest smile John has ever witnessed, Victor strides over confidently as though him being here is all fine, as though he didn't get John's inexperienced roommate drunk last weekend, as though he doesn't know _exactly_ what he's doing.

"We meet again," Victor attempts to joke though his smile is rather insincere, eyes lingering just long enough on John to make it quite clear he's very aware he isn't welcome here and simply doesn't give a toss.

"Why are you here?" Greg demands, making his own thoughts on the subject very obvious and John has never been more grateful for his friend than right now.

"Hey, woah," Victor steps back and holds his hands up in mock surrender. "No need to get hostile. Jesus, can't anyone have a conversation with you without you going mental?"

"Sure," Greg nods amiably, "plenty of people can. Although, those people are not usually ones who've gotten my boyfriend's baby brother completely legless at a party."

"Oh come on," Victor rolls his eyes and flicks his hand in the air as though Sherlock's well-being is the least of his concerns. "Sherlock was just fine. People get drunk at parties, it's not that big of a deal. He's still breathing, isn't he? Do you always overreact like this?"

"When it comes to people I care about, yes, I do," Greg glares back.

"Guys, stop," Paul finally seems to find himself, still looking uneasy but giving himself a shake. He gives him roommate a glare before continuing. "Look, Victor wanted to come with me today to _apologize_ , right Vic?"

Victor doesn't respond immediately. He glances over both John and Greg for a long moment before crossing his arms over his chest in a rather unapologetic stance. "Yeah," he says sardonically, "sorry."

"Vic, come on," Paul nudges him with an elbow, "these are my friends and I'd like you to get along with them. You know what you did was… not great."

"Well, it's a bit difficult when they're still flipping out-" Victor begins to argue.

"Paul," Greg snaps, slicing through Victor's words, "can I have a word with you?"

Sighing, Paul shoots Victor one last pleading glance with a hint of anger before he follows Greg out of earshot, leaving John and Victor alone.

They stand for a long moment in silence and John could slice the tension with a knife, the back of his neck tingling with silent fury.

In the end, it's John who breaks the silence.

"You didn't come here to apologize at all, did you?"

He sees the glint in Victor's eye, a hint of mild surprise before that smirk returns and every feature rearranges itself on the boy's face to match that of the one John saw the night of the party the moment Victor had laid eyes on him and sized him up properly.

"No of course not," Victor laughs condescendingly, "what on earth do I have to apologize for? Sherlock looked completely fine when I saw him during our _study_ sessions this week. I'm quite aware that he's alright."

John has never been prouder of himself in his life for not reacting to that comment. He waits, not moving a muscle.

Victor's smile widens. "I came here to exercise. This is a gym, isn't it?"

"Mm," John nods once, pursing his lips to keep himself from barking out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Well, I'll leave you to it then." He turns to leave, really intending on leaving, suddenly having the urge to hurry back to his room and see Sherlock before he has to get on the bus for their away game, just to convince himself that all is well, that Sherlock is fine and they are fine and this uneasiness is just from being in the presence of Victor Trevor.

But that annoyingly calm, casual voice pulls him back.

"So you've got an away game this weekend?"

Panic ricochets around John's insides immediately as the hair on the back of his neck stands up, a cool wave crashing through his body at the implications of the question. He turns back with narrowed eyes. "Why do you care?" It's an idiotic response, but John is a bit shocked that Victor is aware of their game schedule, which is ridiculous considering he lives with a rugby player.

John's insides squirm.

Shrugging, Victor peers over John's shoulder as though deeply interested in the proceedings behind him and not at all interested in this conversation. "No reason," he murmurs, "so Sherlock will be all alone this evening then?"

"He's spending the weekend with his brother." John's thoughts are smudging a bit as he realizes he's leaving town tonight, leaving Sherlock by himself in their room with a pretentious prick on the loose prowling after him. He's thankful that Victor probably has no idea that Sherlock would rather undergo some form of painful torture than spend one moment with Mycroft Holmes, which he basically deems the same thing.

John sees the minute disappointed brow pinch before Victor changes his face yet again. "Ah. Pity. Well, good luck with the game." He steps around John, hands in his pockets, cool and calm as ever, hardly acknowledging that he's just rattled John's cage rather severely. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you around soon."

John waits for a long moment, watching out of the corner of his eye Victor disappear into the locker room before he turns to find his Captain staring at him. John hardly flinches before Greg is nodding, flipping his hand toward the door. "Go," he mouths. "You've got thirty minutes."

He doesn't need to be told twice. Grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, the rugby player takes off out of the gym and toward his dorm room, praying that a genius boy who has become monumentally important to him is there waiting.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John decides, as he slumps down into the fading grey seat to begin their four-hour bus journey, that he is a complete nutter. Absolutely. One hundred percent insane.

He'd just raced back to his dorm, actually ran through campus to make it home, make it back to Sherlock, his platonic roommate, heaving dramatic gasps of air as he'd thrown the door open only to find the room entirely empty.

A zip of worry had raced its way down John's spine at the sight of the Sherlock-less space, before he went about packing his overnight bag, _slowly_ , hoping maybe to catch just a glimpse of the genius before he left him for what was going to be an unacceptably long amount of time. He'd carefully made his way around his room, folding neatly and packing gently, making every single movement last an unbearable amount of time until the very last second before he'd had to make it back to catch the bus.

There had been no sign of Sherlock.

"I'm a crazy person," John mumbles to himself, running a hand through his hair as he glances down at his silent phone in hand, feeling another swoop of disappointment in his gut to find no messages from Sherlock.

"Yes, you are," Greg agrees, slumping down in the seat beside John's, "a completely besotted crazy person."

"Shut up," John chuckles, hardly even denying it anymore. The team is all too aware of his feelings for Sherlock, what is the point of lying about it?

"Hey, I'm in the same boat, mate," Greg sighs, tugging his mobile free from his pocket and shaking it back and forth in his hand. "This stupid thing has been silent all day. I'm getting the fucking _silent treatment_ from my own _boyfriend_. And it's _working_. It's driving me completely mad."

"Yeah, you probably have it worse than I do," John shrugs, "I'm not technically getting the silent treatment… I don't think, at least. He's probably just busy."

Busy with what is what makes John's stomach flip uncomfortably.

"You're lucky," Greg mutters, "Having a Holmes mad at you is rather unpleasant."

"Trust me, I know," John laughs, "haven't you heard about the experiment saga going on in my room?"

"Oh yeah!" Greg giggles, slapping his knee, "Jesus, that's hysterical. Sounds like Sherlock, too."

"Yeah, lucky me," John rolls his eyes fondly, the grin on his face telling all on its own.

Sighing, Greg scoots a bit down in his seat and lowers his voice, glancing around before murmuring, "Listen, I, uh, had a word with Paul."

"I was there," John nods, though he too leans in to hear better. "I saw you drag him off like an angry teacher yelling at their student."

"Oi, he brought that little fucker to our gym time," Greg all but snarls and John's chest gives a slight pull in agreement. Letting out a sigh as though gathering himself, Greg shakes his head. "Paul only had good intentions," he mutters more to himself than anyone. "I feel sorry for him a bit. He definitely feels like he's in the middle of this."

"Well, he doesn't need to be," John sighs, "it's not his fault that his roommate is an arsehole."

"Agreed," Greg nods, "I told him not to bring Victor around anymore and he readily agreed. I think he thought that interaction would go a bit differently until Victor started acting like a complete dick."

"Yeah," John agrees, feeling a bit badly for his teammate, "I'll talk to him too. Let him know it's all fine."

"Yeah, I think that would be good. I think-"

Greg's words are cut off by a soft beep and the boy whips his head down to stare at his singing mobile, swiping it open impatiently before grinning like a lunatic and tapping out a response.

"Lucky bastard," John grumbles jealously.

"Hm?" Greg mutters half-heartedly beside him and John turns to see Greg's nose buried in his cell phone, lips pressed hard as he taps out a text message.

With a heavy sigh, John glares down at his own phone, fighting down another threatening wave of panic attempting to swoop its way through him.

Which is _ridiculous_.

On any other day, it's perfectly normal not to hear from his roommate until they reconvene in their room at the end of the day for takeaway and a chat, sometimes not texting at all. But his conversation with Victor has set John's teeth on edge.

Which, again, is _ridiculous_.

It's not like Victor is going to _murder_ Sherlock.

If anything, he's probably just going to... make a pass at him. Hit on him a bit. Maybe attempt to date him. And kiss him. And probably fuck him at some point. That's the worst thing that will happen.

And that's not the end of the world, right? That's not that big of a deal, is it?

Actually, yes. Yes it _is_ a big deal. Yes it _would_ be the end of the world.

It would be the end of John and Sherlock, whatever that means. It would be the end of nightly takeaway and late night chats and casual, increasingly frequent touches.

It would be the end of John Watson's heart.

And before he can overthink it or talk himself out of it, John is swiping open his phone and typing out a message in frantic, jerky movements, suddenly unbearably desperate to hear from Sherlock Holmes.

_There are leftovers in the mini-fridge._

It's a simple message. Boring, even. But it's something. It's communication. And John _needs_ communication right now. _Talk to me Sherlock. Tell me you haven't run off into the sunset with the green-eyed goblin named Victor._

Staring down at his mobile, stomach unwilling to settle as he waits for a reply, John just catches the end of a soft chuckle and turns to find his captain grinning at him before pointedly looking down at the quiet but glowing phone in his hand as his message sends.

"Oh Johnny," Greg laughs a bit weakily, waving his own mobile in solidarity, "what have the Holmes brothers done to us?"

Huffing out a soft laugh of his own, John shrugs, feeling the knot in his chest loosen slightly, feeling a bit better that he isn't alone. "I have no idea," he grumbles to the ceiling of the bus and Greg sighs beside him.

And before the conversation can continue, John's phone buzzes and Greg's pings again and John's heart all but leaps out of his throat, fingers shaking as he slides open his phone and almost dropping it in his haste.

Sherlock's responding text is anti-climatic and makes John feel no better.

_**Okay.** _

Sighing, John tips his head back in his seat and closes his eyes, the queasiness in his stomach unwilling to settle. Seriously? _Okay_? That's it? Christ, come on, Sherlock.

The despair is overwhelming and John is just about to shut his phone off altogether.

Until it rings again.

_**I'm hungry.** _

He can't help it; John laughs out loud, shaking his head fondly and ignoring his friend beside him giving him a pointed look. Grinning at his phone, he responds quickly.

_Then eat._

_**Without you?** _

_Sherlock, I'm on a bus to a rugby match right now._

_**Oh.** _

_**Well, I suppose I can wait for you to get back.** _

_Then you'll be waiting until tomorrow night since I won't be back until then._

_**What?** _

_**How long does this match last?** _

_Are you being serious right now? I told you we have an away game this weekend. I'll be gone tonight and won't get back until late tomorrow night._

_**I'm certain you didn't tell me this.** _

_I'm certain I did._

_**When?** _

_Monday._

_**Hm.** _

_**Must have deleted it.** _

John frowns down at his phone.

_What on earth does that mean?_

_**Are you teasing me?** _

Smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, John's heart lurches to one side as he reads the message. Christ, his roommate is so fucking _adorable_ and so fucking _endearing_. He knows good and damn well Sherlock loves it when John teases him. He can't help his response, already feeling ten times better as he has a meaningless but wonderful chat with his favorite person.

_I'm sure whatever the answer to my question is will certainly result in me teasing you, yes, but for now I really am asking. What do you mean you deleted it?_

_**Surely we've talked about this.** _

_Apparently not._

_**Ah. I delete things in my mind that hold no importance to me.** _

_Ta very much mate, so glad my schedule doesn't mean anything to you._

_**Well I probably didn't realize at the time that you having a game would mean you were gone for the entire weekend.** _

_It's just one night. I'll be home tomorrow._

_**What time?** _

_Not sure but our game is mid-afternoon so probably not too late._

_**And what am I meant to do all day until then?** _

_I dunno Sherlock but I am certain you can figure something out._

_**Tedious.** _

_Yes, poor you._

_Wait, so you seriously delete things from your brain? Like a computer?_

_**Excellent analogy, John, yes like a computer. My mind is like a hard drive and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful.** _

_Useful?_

_**Yes, useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?** _

_Oh yes, I certainly do see. I see that my roommate is a mad genius who sees himself as brilliant as a machine. Super._

_**You think I'm odd.** _

_Yes I do, but I also think you're brilliant so it balances out the scales._

_**You don't find it weird?** _

_What, that your massive brain can't withhold such trivial information as my schedule? Not as weird as whatever is growing under your bed is, no._

_**There is nothing growing under my bed.** _

_Liar. You seriously thought I hadn't noticed? You think you're that sneaky?_

_**I am that sneaky.** _

_**But there isn't anything under my bed so there is nothing to be sneaky about.** _

_Sure there isn't._

_**There isn't.** _

_Okay, Sherlock._

_So could you maybe not delete things I tell you?_

_**John, if I didn't delete half the rubbish that comes out of your mouth from my brain, I would no longer qualify as a genius.** _

_Ah, yes what a hard life that would be for you, living down at the level with the rest of us mere mortals._

_**You have no idea.** _

_So what are you going to do tonight, then? Have you decided?_

_**What do you think?** _

_You're going to do some horrendous experiment that I'll have to clean up when I get home, aren't you?_

_**Well done, John. You're getting better.** _

_Wonderful._

_**I think so.** _

_Well, enjoy it._

Leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes, already regretting ending the conversation, John settles deeper in his chair, a soft euphoria settling in his bones.

They're okay.

They're solid.

Victor Trevor's got nothing on John Watson's connection with Sherlock Holmes. Of that, John is certain.

And just as his mind finally begins to settle, he's shocked awake again as his phone buzzes in his hand.

And warmth spreads through him all over again as he reads the message from his roommate.

_**Oh, do you have to go?** _

Beaming adoringly down at his mobile so hard he hopes Sherlock can feel it through the phone lines, John can't respond quickly enough.

_Nope. We've still got a few hours to go._

_Did you find the leftovers?_

_**Yes. Teriyaki chicken does not taste as good reheated.** _

_I know, sorry. I didn't have time to pick anything up before we got on the bus._

_**It's fine.** _

_You're welcome, brat._

_**I am NOT a brat.** _

_A posh, public school brat with a massive intellect so huge it's considered a hard drive._

_**You are so dramatic.** _

_I'M dramatic? Me? You can say that to me? Really?_

_**Yes.** _

_Oh Sherlock. You see but you do not observe._

_**I observe perfectly fine thank you very much.** _

_I don't know about that. I think I'm gaining on you in the observing department._

_**Not even close, John.** _

_Pretty damn close, Sherlock._

_**Keep telling yourself that.** _

_Oh I will._

_I will until my intellect is as giant as yours._

_Then what will we do?_

_**Then we'll build you a Mind Palace.** _

_A palace?! Now I like the sound of that!_

_**Relax, it's not an actual palace. It's a memory technique. You basically build a palace in your mind to remember things you deem important.** _

_**So yours would probably be a giant building with one floor full of useless information about rugby and the other floor would be useless information about James Bond.** _

_Well I like the sound of that._

_Wait, how many floors do I get?_

_**As many as necessary. I do wings but floors work too.** _

_I like floors better. So I'd need to build a third floor for you._

_**You need a whole floor for me?** _

_Oh yes. Do you have any idea all the things I need to remember about you on a daily basis?_

_Like when the last time you ate was?_

_Or when the last time you had a sip of water was?_

_Or when the last time you left our room was?_

_**Alright, I get it.** _

_**Although I think you're being a bit dramatic.** _

_**Again.** _

_**But I'll agree to the third floor in your Mind Palace being mine.** _

_Wonderful._

_And where am I in yours?_

_**Don't worry about it.** _

_No, come on, you get a whole floor in mine!_

_**Yes, and thank you very much for that.** _

_Sherlock tell me!_

_**No.** _

_Please?_

_**No.** _

_Come on!_

The quickness of the replies stop there and John sighs, disappointment squirming in his stomach, wanting nothing more than to keep having a meaningless conversation with his roommate, feeling giddy and happy and better than he has all day long. He fiddles with his phone a moment longer before dropping his head back against his seat, feeling profoundly foolish for needing a simple text message so badly.

Why did they have to have away games? Why were there things on this earth that took John away from Sherlock?

Why is John so bloody attached to this boy?

Just as his eyes are closing to assist his entire body in wallowing over the silence of his mobile, a familiar vibration shakes against his palm and John's lids fly open, thumb already swiping over the screen.

A soft chuckle bursts free from his lips at the message that appears before him.

_**I'm bored.** _

With a roll of his eyes and a smile on his lips, John replies:

_Bored of eating?_

_**Well, yes, but bored in general.** _

_Start your experiment._

_**I did. I have to wait for the results.** _

_Well watch it closely. Make sure it doesn't spill over onto my side of the room._

_**John, it's boring here.** _

He knows he shouldn't take pleasure in the fact that Sherlock is bored without him, he knows that, but here he sits on a dark bus, feeling pleased as punch that his roommate is stewing in boredom without him. Maybe he's reading too much into this but John hopes desperately that when Sherlock says _I'm bored_ , he actually means _I miss you_.

One can dream, John supposes.

_You've been alone for an hour._

_**Yes. It's awful.** _

The warm ember that had lodged itself in John's chest the first week he'd met Sherlock gets hotter and brighter, glowing pleasantly, making his insides tingle with happiness.

Sherlock misses him.

Sherlock doesn't want to be alone.

It's a small but absolutely wonderful victory.

It makes John go all gooey and ridiculous, even to his own eyes as he types out his message.

_Listen, tomorrow night I'll be back and we can eat takeaway and maybe watch a film and you won't be bored, okay?_

_**What film?** _

_I dunno. James Bond?_

_**Seriously?** _

_Okay, how about whatever you'd like, your highness?_

_**Do we have to watch a film?** _

_Not if you don't want to._

_**What else would we do?** _

_Well, we could do what we normally do; I could attempt to do homework while you yap away about… I dunno, whatever is in your head at that moment._

_**I don't do that.** _

_Yes you do._

_**Well usually the things in my head are far more interesting than the things in yours.** _

_Tactful as always, Sherlock._

_**Does it bother you?** _

_Does what bother me?_

_**That I apparently talk incessantly.** _

_What? No, of course not._

There is no response for a long moment, but John's frayed nerves have seemed to finally calm and he drops off into a light sleep, clutching his phone with a soft smile on his face.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As the lights come on in the bus, a hand gently shakes him awake and John's eyelids flutter open.

"We're here, mate," Greg whispers. "Come on, let's get upstairs to the room."

Nodding tiredly, John checks his mobile to find it still silent, no missed text messages. With a yawn, he slides it open and taps out a quick message, feeling the need to check in and make sure Sherlock knows what's going on. Not that he asked but John's tired brain from all the emotions of the day is feeling a bit sentimental and he just wants to say goodnight to his friend.

_Hey, I dunno if you're still awake or busy or something but just wanted to let you know we've arrived at the hotel. I'd better get some sleep._

_You should probably do the same._

_**Please, it's not even midnight.** _

_Look I know you think you're nocturnal but you should still sleep._

_**Nocturnal, John? I don't sleep during the day either, I am definitely not nocturnal.** _

_Okay fine, smartarse, don't sleep at all then._

_**Fine.** _

_Fine._

Trying not to giggle, John fumbles his way out of the bus and up the stairs, following Greg's feet as his eyes threaten to close, heart still beating a bit faster, hoping to find another text when he gets upstairs.

To his delight, there is one waiting as he tosses his bag on the bed.

Biting down on his lip, John goes about getting ready for bed, laughing softly at the sight of Greg face down on the other bed, sound asleep already, and climbs under the sheets of his own bed, clutching his phone in hand under the covers. The screen lights up as he reads the short message.

_**It's so quiet here.** _

Heart turning harshly in his chest, John blinks fondly down to the words on his screen, his entire body seeming to be missing Sherlock a ridiculous amount, especially at the time of night he's usually only a few meters away from him in their small room. He curls in on himself and types out a brief message.

_Here too._

Eyes closing at their own accord, John quickly types out a message before he's no longer awake.

_I really better sleep. Gotta be ready for the game tomorrow._

_**Okay.** _

_Sleep well if you're able to sleep at all._

_**Doubtful but thank you.** _

_You're welcome._

_**Goodnight, John.** _

_Goodnight, Sherlock._

And by the time sleep sweeps him under, John has forgotten all about Victor Trevor, only thoughts of Sherlock Holmes consuming his dreams.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_**John.** _

_**John.** _

_**JOHN.** _

_**John Mycroft is in our room. Why is Mycroft in our room?** _

_**JOHN.** _

_Jesus, hello roommate, nice to hear from you, we won and had a great game, thank you so much for asking._

_**Mycroft is here.** _

_Yes, I gathered from your messages._

_**Why?** _

_Why is he there?_

_**Yes.** _

_I have no bloody idea, why don't you ask him?_

_**I did. He said he wants to spend time with me.** _

_That's nice._

_**Help me.** _

_And what would you like me to do exactly?_

_**You need to get home. Now.** _

_We're loading up the bus now. I should be home in about four hours._

_**That is an intolerable amount of time.** _

_Miss me that much, eh?_

_**Yes.** _

_I miss you, too. We'll be home soon, okay? And I'll grab dinner._

_**Thai?** _

_Is that what you want?_

_**Yes.** _

_Okay, I'll pick it up on my way back._

_**Bring Greg with you.** _

_Back to the room?_

_**Yes.** _

_Why?_

_**So he can get Mycroft out of here.** _

_**I'm going to try to smoke him out in the meantime but I may not get it to work by the time you get back so we'd better be on the cautious side.** _

_DO NOT PRODUCE ANY SMOKE IN OUR ROOM SHERLOCK HOLMES_

_**Why are you yelling?** _

_Because I want to come home tonight to four walls and a Sherlock in one piece._

_**It'll be fine.** _

_Sherlock._

_**Ugh fine, you're so boring.** _

_Yeah but you miss my boring self._

_**I suppose I do.** _

_I'll see you soon, Sherlock. Try to enjoy your time with your brother._

_**That's like asking me to enjoy being waterboarded.** _

_Wow._

_**Hurry home.** _

_I will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING! We're having a constant lovefest on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come join in! XO!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Quick note of epic THANK YOUs to ishaveforsherl for help with all ideas and storylines and being AMAZING and awkwardtiming for grammar help, future beta-ing and generally being a FANTASTIC FRIEND! Love you both so very much!!_  

"Alright, so we are looking surprisingly good for the presentation," Sherlock mumbles to his laptop as he finishes typing, eyes trained on the PowerPoint he, Irene and Victor have been working on for the last several weeks, rather pleased to find this project hasn't been the pain in the arse he'd been convinced it would be.

His Chemistry partners sit on the opposite side of the table they'd snatched up in the library an hour earlier. "It's a miracle, really," he grumbles, running his thumb along his lower lip absently as he rereads the paragraph he'd just completed, carefully scrutinizing it for any mistakes. "All we need now… is-"

"That chemical compound equation?" Irene suddenly perks up in her chair from where she'd been slouched, eyeing both Victor and Sherlock carefully for almost the entire hour, hardly paying much attention to the task at hand let alone participating. It hadn't gone unnoticed by the genius; he'd just simply ignored it seeing as there is a project he needs to have completed within the next three days and has no time for slacking partners.

Now, however, Irene seems to be quite keen on becoming involved.

She turns her rather predatory, calculating gaze on their third partner. "Victor, would you be a dear and go grab that textbook on reactions Sherlock mentioned?"

Irene is batting her eyelashes in an extremely irritating way, tipping her head to the left and side-eyeing Victor in an overly flirtatious way, posturing with a shy smile, making it quite clear she's attempting to force Victor to do whatever it is that she wants, being far kinder and for more provocative than Sherlock has ever seen her act towards Victor.

And the curly-haired boy narrows his eyes on his Chemistry partner, glaring daggers into the side of her head as she purposefully avoids looking in his direction.

She's plotting something.

Which is blatantly obvious considering Sherlock didn't actually say he needed any textbook.

Victor, for his part, seems to be attempting to pull himself out of a trance-like state, blinking rapidly away from where he'd apparently been staring in Sherlock's direction and fixes his hazy eyes on Irene as though he's only just realized she is also here. "What?" he asks dumbly.

For godsake, does _anyone_ in this group take this project seriously besides _Sherlock_?

With a roll of his eyes and an irritated sigh, the genius boy says, "Irene, I didn't – _ow_!"

Irene offers an insincere smile at him as she lowers her foot from his calf where she'd just kicked him under the table, and flashes another close-mouthed smile at a now frowning Victor. "Please?" she adds.

Glancing back and forth between his two chemistry partners across the table, Victor seems unable to process what is being asked of him for a moment before sighing in resignation. "Whatever," he grumbles, offering a suspicious glare in Irene's direction before wandering off in the wrong direction of the library.

Sherlock scrubs a hand through his hair. Christ, he is surrounded by _idiots_. "You're going the-"

"Shut up," Irene whispers sharply, cutting him off as Sherlock attempts to offer their partner directions, seeing as the library is rather large and Victor isn't the brightest.

"But he's going to be gone for ages-"

"I know, that's the _point_ ," Irene hisses with a huff of indignation. "You and I need to talk."

Furrowing his brow, Sherlock says, "About what?"

"I don't like him," Irene whispers, glancing around their table quickly before continuing, ensuring there are no prying eyes or open ears nearby. "I hate the way he… the way he _looks_ at you."

"Who?" Sherlock asks, the wheels in his head attempting to turn faster to catch up to what's happening in this conversation.

"Who-… _Victor_ , you moron!" Irene barks rather loudly before ducking her head again, rechecking her surroundings. "You can't be this blind? Seriously, all he does every time we meet up is eye-fuck the shit out of you and it's honestly repulsive and I'm over it. He's so _creepy_."

Sherlock doesn't need a mirror to know his skin is flushing bright red from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears at Irene's crudeness. " _What_?" he attempts to demand, although it comes out as more of a squeak.

"Why must you be so oblivious to boys who are mad about you?" Irene asks almost angrily, frowning at Sherlock as though he's the most irritating human being she's ever met. "Victor _likes_ you. He wants to _fuck_ you. He got you drunk at a party at _his house_ on purpose. I cannot _believe_ you are making me spell this out for you. It's not rocket science, which is a stupid comparison in this particular situation since you'd actually be able to sort it out if it _were_ rocket science."

"Calm down," Sherlock mutters under his breath, his cheeks practically on fire.

"No, I will not _calm down_ ," Irene's face twists into a mocking sneer as she practically spits the words back at him. "You are too stupid to see it so I'm telling you this now; be fucking careful with him. Seriously. I don't like anything about this. Besides, you're basically taken. He needs to back off. He's practically foaming at the mouth over you."

"Oh my god," Sherlock groans under his breath, ducking his red face back down into his laptop. Basically taken? By _who_ exactly? "You are being ridiculous."

"I'm really _really_ not," Irene continues, scooting closer. "I've known plenty of Victor Trevors in my life, Sherlock. I went to secondary school with at least twenty of them."

"Ah, yes, so much life experience in secondary school," Sherlock murmurs sarcastically, attempting to redirect his eyes to his work and away from the girl blinking furious eyes at him.

He's getting really sick and tired of people attempting to get into his business. Particularly because there is no business to get into. First, his stupid older brother showing up last weekend to scold and lecture him on the topics of drinking alcohol and coercion, and later onto cautions of 'reckless youths' and, of all things, Victor Trevor whom Mycroft seemed to believe was somehow the reason for everything that had happened at the party. He hadn't been quite as crass as Irene in his concerns but he had given an earful on distrustful teenagers and the only thought on said teenager's minds.

Now, Irene's little speech is only serving to irk his irritation just that much more.

Does _anyone_ think he can take care of himself?

"Listen to me, Sherlock Holmes," Irene bites back, practically in his face. "I'm trying to help you, here."

"Help me with _what_ , exactly?" It's Sherlock's turn to get a bit worked up, very much not understanding this conversation at all or why it seems to be the second time he's having it. And what is it with everyone getting on his case about one of the only people who has been nice to him? Victor is perfectly harmless, maybe a bit dull even. But he's _nice_ to Sherlock. Doesn't Irene see that? Doesn't she understand how rare a thing that is? Besides, she wasn't at the party. She doesn't know anything about it.

"I'm helping make sure you don't get yourself in a bad situation," Irene hisses back, throwing her hands up in the air incredulously. "Look, I've heard some weird stuff about Victor, okay? I just want you to be safe."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock's anger cools, curiosity taking its place. "What kind of stuff?"

"I dunno," Irene shakes her head in frustration. "I mean, nothing concrete. I'm still trying to sort it all out, get more information, but Sherlock I'm serious, you-"

"So you know nothing, is what you're saying," Sherlock replies bitingly, throwing Irene a glare before picking his pencil up and setting back to work in his notebook next to his laptop, attempting to refocus on the task at hand. He doesn't have time to listen to Irene's insane ramblings. They have work to do.

"Sherlock, seriously," Irene grabs his bicep and shakes it slightly, knocking the pencil free from his hand. He shoots her an irritated glare and opens his mouth to berate her but she beats him to it.

"Please, just listen," she begs, running a hand through her hair and glancing down at the table. "Look, I know you don't want me in your business and I get that, I do, but I just needed to say my piece, okay? You're new to this stuff and you may not see it. He's… he's got his eye on you in this predatory sort of way and I don't like it, Sherlock. Especially since you have John already, I don't want anything getting in-"

" _What_?" Sherlock sputters at Irene's casual statement, panic rising rapidly in his chest. "I don't _have_ John!"

Looking startled for half a second, Irene stares at Sherlock before rolling her eyes away from him. "My god, you are monumentally stupid."

"I don't!" Sherlock argues, face reheating, terror rippling through him at the thought that anyone on campus would even _think_ that he and John were… were a… a what? _Couple_? For christ _sake_. If John _ever_ found out anyone thought that… oh god, Sherlock needs to do damage control on this immediately. Before it costs him the most important thing in the world to him. He absolutely cannot lose his relationship with John Watson. Not like this. "We are not together, we are _roommates_. That's _it_. There is absolutely _nothing_ more."

"Okay," Irene snorts, grinning down at her open notebook as she picks up her pencil.

"There _isn't_ ," Sherlock snaps, hearing the knowing tone in her voice.

"Sure," she smiles, refusing to look at him. "Whatever you say."

Ignoring her in favor of turning back to his laptop, Sherlock stabs at the keys furiously in silence for a moment, allowing the rest of her words to process through his brain before he pauses his typing. "And Victor didn't 'get me drunk', as you so claim. I drank on my own. And clearly made a mistake by telling _you_ that little bit of information."

"Really," Irene responds, not even giving him the courtesy of looking at him. "You found that bottle of vodka and poured those shots yourself and then downed three of them? All on your own?"

"And that's the last time I tell you anything ever again," Sherlock clips, turning his back to his chemistry partner.

"It's called peer pressure, Sherlock," Irene sighs from behind him. "Google it."

"I know what _peer pressure_ is, thanks," Sherlock remarks though he doesn't argue the point. What use would it do? They won't agree. Besides, he knows he's right. What is it with everyone claiming Victor poured a bunch of alcohol down his throat? First Greg the night of the party, then Mycroft a week later, and now Irene. Why is everyone so determined to harangue him about this?

As much as he loathes to admit it, Mycroft is probably the only one who really has any type of argument about the issue at hand, which is so incredibly infuriating, Sherlock wishes he could erase that stupid incident from his life altogether. Because that's what it had been. Stupid. And reckless. And had set him up for a lifetime of Concerned Brother Mycroft and lectures on how to keep himself out of trouble.

Absolutely _not_ worth it.

But that night had been so different from the one two weeks ago. The one where he'd attended a rather fun party with his wonderful roommate and played Pong and had a few beers and enjoyed the hell out of himself. The one where people actually talked to him and laughed with him and accepted him. The one that was completely perfect until the last fifteen minutes.

Sherlock would prefer to block those fifteen minutes out entirely considering how awful his head and stomach felt afterward. Though, he can barely remember what happened after actually taking the shots, besides stumbling home and waking up in his own bed.

And why was everyone so hell-bent on blaming _Victor_? Like Sherlock isn't able to make his own bloody decisions? Like Sherlock is incapable of having a thought of his own? It was _Sherlock's_ decision to down those shots, thank you very much. In Sherlock's opinion, his chemistry partner wasn't much of a factor at all in that choice. He'd merely made a suggestion and Sherlock had agreed. No big deal. Mycroft, and now Irene, make it out like Victor is some huge importance in Sherlock's life, some significant figure he's associating with and being influenced by, like Sherlock's brain turns to complete mush whenever he's around his Chemistry partner, like Victor _controls_ him somehow.

How _dull_.

Honestly, had they met Victor Trevor? Yes, the boy dresses impeccably and is always rather kind to Sherlock which is of course nice but beyond that, Victor is a bit dim, a bit boring, and doesn't have much weight in Sherlock's life.

However, Sherlock isn't about to kick the boy to the curb.

What Mycroft and Irene seem to miss is that Sherlock doesn't have a lot of friends. He has… well, he has John. And considering his feeling for John grow exponentially every day, he'd prefer to not _only_ have John. Especially since John doesn't _only_ have Sherlock. John has lots of people. An entire team, a whole social group, loads of admirers. He's got the entire school practically wrapped around his finger, every person itching to get a piece of John Watson. If the party had been any indication, it was very obvious that John is a hot commodity. Sherlock has been lucky enough to hold John's attention simply because they live in the same room.

But really, how long could that last?

There will come a time, and Sherlock is fully aware of this, where John will not find Sherlock so interesting. He won't find dangerous experiments funny and nightly takeway enjoyable. He won't find Sherlock's sleep habits or his short attention span endearing. He'll become bored, maybe even irritated. It won't last. Of that, Sherlock is certain. John's got plenty of options, friendships and relationships practically lining up at his door. John is likeable. He's fun.

No way in hell Sherlock will be able to keep him around like they are now forever. John has too much social potential to stay this attached to one person.

Sherlock is completely aware of this.

So he needs to prepare himself. He needs to have other people too. He needs to not be alone when John inevitably leaves him.

And Victor is… fine. He's not adorably cheeky or hilariously funny. He's not sturdy and reliable while being simultaneously fun. He doesn't tease Sherlock mercilessly and make him blush.

Victor is most definitely _not_ John Watson.

But he's friendly enough and can hold a conversation. A bit rubbish at school work but can have a good time at a party. And, bonus, Sherlock has absolutely _no_ attraction to him whatsoever. Besides the clothes he wears but that has nothing to do with Victor and more to do with the brands he sports.

He's a safe friend. A worry-free friend. No attraction, no obsession, no fuss. A low maintenience friendship. A friendship, period.

It's what Sherlock _needs_. To keep himself sane, to keep his friendship with John intact. At least, for a little while longer. For as long as John will have him.

Of course, he can't say any of this to Irene or Mycroft. They'll never get it. They'll never understand that Sherlock needs Victor because his relationship with John becomes increasingly unstable every single time Sherlock looks at him, walking a fine line every other day of doing or saying something that will out him and his feelings entirely to his roommate and blowing their friendship up completely.

And he can't risk that.

John, for his part, hasn't said a word about Victor, which of course makes Sherlock like him all the more. He doesn't pry into Sherlock's business, he doesn't give his opinions. He's good. John is _good_.

John is _perfect_.

"You know I'm your friend, right?" Irene suddenly murmurs from behind him, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts and back to the present where he's currently staring at the cursor on his laptop.

"Hm?" he replies dumbly, attempting to process what his Chemistry partner just said, a thought flashing through his mind that Irene is actually a mind-reader with how close to the mark her comment is hitting to his current train of thought.

"We're friends," Irene says more firmly. "And I think friends should be able to talk to each other like this. That's the only reason I brought it up."

"Hm," Sherlock says again, though it's less of a question this time.

Are him and Irene friends?

He hadn't even thought about it, but he supposes-

"Just be careful, okay?" Irene murmurs. "That's all I'm asking. And you have my number in your phone so if you need _anything_ -"

"Alright," Sherlock snaps with a sharp turn of his head. "I get it."

"Okay," Irene concedes, apparently dropping the point and Sherlock breathes a silent sigh of relief, feeling like maybe he's had his fill of this conversation for the day. It's getting tedious, everyone so concerned about him. He isn't a _child_. He can take care of himself.

Huffing a sigh and shaking himself free of irritating thoughts, Sherlock hunches over his laptop in an attempt to hunker down and work, seeing as they only have a couple days left before their project is due. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he glares at his screen, doing his best to read his work, searching for any mistakes or errors on the topic-

Until he notices the clock at the corner of his computer screen and curses to the high heavens, heart plummeting to his stomach in one swift drop.

_Shit._

"Woah, hey, where are you rushing off to?" Irene snaps and Sherlock hastily gathers his papers and all but slams his laptop shut, scrambling to shove them into his book bag as quickly as humanly possible, ignoring the telling crinkling of papers and _thunk_ of his laptop against his textbooks.

"I have to go," Sherlock mutters, ignoring Irene for the most part as he glances at the clock on his phone again just to be certain he'd read it correctly.

6:33pm.

John will be finishing with practice right about now and Sherlock needs to get back to their room _now_. It's the best part of his day after all and he refuses to miss even a moment of it because Irene Adler decided to lecture him on the dangers of Victor Trevor. Fuck no. He needs to get back to his room _now_.

And maybe he'll take the path home that just happens to pass by the rugby field, maybe just sneak by casually unnoticed to catch a glimpse of his gorgeous roommate in shorts and a t-shirt, looking disheveled and messy and sexy as all fucking hell. It's a guilty pleasure Sherlock indulges in from time to time and no amount of Chemistry homework is going to keep him from it.

"Alright, well when is our next meeting?" Irene stands to gather her own belongings, apparently also finished for the day.

"We'll figure it out in class tomorrow," Sherlock snaps, "I have to _go_."

"Okay okay," Irene throws her hands up in mock surrender. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, and did you want to go to the game this weekend together? It's at home."

"What game?" Sherlock asks distractedly, fumbling with the strap on his bag.

Irene snorts derisively. "Oh, you know, just the rugby game your precious John will be at, sweating and panting in that delicious uniform. You know, the one you drooled over a couple weeks ago? Surely you remember-"

"Alright, Jesus," Sherlock mutters, slashing a hand through the air to cut her off as the heat rises in his face. _Of course_ he remembers that day. He bloody _dreams_ about that day.

He pictures that sodding jersey every other moment of every day, about every stripe, every stitch, every cut, every curve. He can't _stop_ picturing it, the way that black material lines his roommate's form so exquisitely, accenting his gorgeously bulging muscles and perfectly round arse. The number 3 is practically seared into Sherlock's eyelids, dancing across his vision every time he blinks, taunting him with the way it lays down John's solid back just under six letters that make up the simplest and yet sweetest last name Sherlock is certain he could write poems about.

 _Watson_.

How he loves that name. And that number. And that fucking uniform.

"I'll take that as a yes then," Irene smirks, watching the flicker of heated emotions play across Sherlock's features at the mere mention of his dormmate's rugby jersey.

"Shut up," Sherlock snaps, pausing before biting out a, "Fine."

Truth is, he'd planned to sneak to every single one of John's games that he feasibly could just to get an eyeful of that gorgeous bloke in that number 3 jersey. Though he won't be telling _Irene_ that.

"Perfect," Irene grins triumphantly. "See you in class tomorrow."

"See you," Sherlock throws over his shoulder as he hurries out of the library, cursing Irene for distracting him.

Thank god the field is so close to the library. He figures if he ever were to be caught ogling John Watson's perfect arse from the sidewalk along the practice field, he could just claim he was innocently walking home from studying and John would be none the wiser.

He grins to himself at his own cleverness and throws open the doors of the library, stepping out under the overhang of the building into what has turned into a rather dark and dreary day, rain sprinkling lightly along the concrete, though from the dampness of the ground Sherlock would surmise it had been raining heavily earlier. He takes a deep breath, always appreciating the smell of rain on a gloomy London day, assessing the heaviness of the droplets and deciding an umbrella isn't necessary at all.

Which is good considering he didn't bring one.

The door he'd just exited from bangs open behind him, startling him slightly from his London fog reverie and he turns to shoot a glare at whoever is making all that racket, cutting remark poised on his tongue ready and waiting to strike.

"Sherlock, hey." Victor Trevor is breathing a bit heavily, shoulders rising and falling as though he'd just run a great distance in search of something, though the smile on his face looks like he's found what he was looking for.

Apparently, he was looking for Sherlock. "Glad I caught you. I finally made it back to the table but you guys were gone. This fucking library is _huge_."

"It's a university library," Sherlock sighs, Victor's ignorance truly astounding on occasion. "What did you expect?"

"I couldn't find that sodding book," Victor continues as though he hadn't heard Sherlock at all. "Seriously, how do you find anything in there?"

"You search in the correct locations," Sherlock mumbles back out to the street and away from Victor, properly ready for this conversation to be over so he can get on with more pressing matters of his day. Like the fact that a sweaty and probably soaking wet John Watson is just across that street there, and if he could get away from this inane conversation, he might just get a glimpse of strong thighs and ripped biceps and damp, blonde, beautiful hair-

"But anyway, I wanted to ask you something," Victor just keeps talking like he has Sherlock's attention, which he doesn't seem to realize he doesn't.

"What is it?" Sherlock asks the street, grinding his molars in irritation.

"Well," Victor's voice has gone a bit quiet and unsure and Sherlock can't help turning back around, curiosity getting the better of him to see what's gotten into his project partner. Victor's green eyes glance down to his feet before peering up at Sherlock almost shyly. "I, uh… look, I'm not the greatest at Chemistry-"

"I know," Sherlock agrees because it's true. If it weren't for Sherlock, Victor would have failed this project entirely.

"And I really appreciate all your help with this assignment, I mean I would have been in serious trouble if it weren't for you." Victor smiles sincerely, nodding at Sherlock with gratitude.

"Oh," Sherlock manages, because in truth he has no idea what else to say. Everything Victor has said is accurate, so what is a proper response? "You're welcome," he decides is apt.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair and glancing away as his teeth gnaw at his lower lip, Victor looks a bit nervous, his eyes looking everywhere but at Sherlock, shoving his fidgeting hands into his pockets and taking a breath. "Listen, I uh… I really would like to pass Chemistry with flying colors and I don't see how I'm going to do that on my own." He rubs a hand along the back of his neck and Sherlock is just about to get a little snappish to hurry this conversation along because there is a gorgeous rugby player just around the corner waiting for Sherlock's eager eyes when finally Victor glances up and looks straight at him. "Sherlock, will you tutor me? In Chemistry, I mean?"

Eyebrows shooting to his hairline in pure surprise, Sherlock blinks for a second, a bit lost. Why was Victor so nervous to ask that? Seems a bit silly. "Sure," Sherlock shrugs, frowning slightly at why this took ages for Victor to blurt out.

Although…

Friends tutor each other, don't they? They help each other out, assist each other in passing classes, right? Sherlock is guessing but he thinks that's true. It fits the pattern so far of Victor's kindness toward him.

So Victor definitely wants to be friends, then.

Good.

Sherlock offers a smile, hoping it conveys that he too wants to be friends. He needs to put a solid effort into this, not go mucking it up immediately. Besides, he is feeling rather chuffed that Victor has entrusted him with such an important task. Victor really is rather rubbish at Chemistry. He needs all the help he can get.

And the weight of John Watson being his only friend in the world lifts just a tiny bit off Sherlock's shoulders, making the genius feel mildly better that when John inevitably leaves him, he won't be entirely alone.

"Really?" Victor practically beams at him, green eyes glittering with gratitude. "Oh god, that's so great, thank you so much, mate, truly."

"No problem," Sherlock can't help grinning back, feeling quite proud of this new friend he'd made all on his own. Maybe he could have friends plural instead of just friend singular. "When do you want to get started?"

Victor takes a small step closer, pulling a hand free from his pocket and gripping the strap of his bag, eagerly fidgeting with it. "Tonight? You could come to mine and we could work on it?"

"Oh I-" Sherlock just stops himself from glancing longingly over his shoulder at where the practice field sits just across the street, feeling a swoop of guilt for denying his new friend. But John comes first. John will _always_ come first. "I can't tonight."

Victor's smile falters and Sherlock shifts his own bag in his hand, attempting to convey how much work is inside, which of course won't take him all night but staring at John Watson will and Sherlock would prefer to be locked away in his dorm room with that blond boy for the rest of the evening.

"Oh, okay," Victor nods, glancing down again, looking the perfect picture of disappointed.

And Sherlock feels so guilty he quickly races through his schedule for the next few days, deciding Friday or Saturday are right out immediately if there is any chance he'll get a repeat of last weekend when John got back home from his out of town rugby game, arriving with huge plates of pasta and the loveliest smile on his face, then flipping the telly on to some horrendous show that Sherlock promptly picked apart to John's utter glee if the genius is going by John's howls of laughter throughout the night, throwing fond smiles and ridiculous headshakes in Sherlock's direction every so often.

Yes, Friday and Saturday need to stay free. Just in case. "How about Sunday? I'm free all day on Sunday. And we'll be finished with our project at the end of the week so we can dig into the weekend homework I'm sure Professor Higgins will assign."

Snapping green eyes up to meet Sherlock's and ticking one corner of his mouth into a crooked smile, Victor nods eagerly. "Okay. Yes, great. Sunday is great. Although, I have to work at the café during the day so I probably can't get together until that night. Will that still work?"

"You work at a café?" Sherlock tilts his head to the side, glancing up and down his new friend. He hadn't read that on him before now. No stains on any clothes, no bags under his eyes, no hurrying off to catch a shift-

"Just got the job actually," Victor shrugs. "First day is this weekend."

"Ah," Sherlock nods, immediately feeling better about not knowing since there was nothing to know apparently. "Well, Sunday night it is, then."

"Right," Victor grins. "I should be home around seven. You can just come over then?"

"Great," Sherlock nods once succinctly, hoping that's the end of it and breathing a sigh of relief as Victor starts walking backward.

"Thanks again, Sherlock," the boy smiles as he turns. "I'll catch you tomorrow in class."

"Bye," Sherlock raises a hand to wave quickly before spinning on his heel and taking off into the rain as it trickles lightly onto his face, trying not to be irked by his new friend for wasting his John Watson Watching Time.

Hurrying onto the sidewalk lining the field just far enough away to walk by unnoticed, Sherlock's sharp eyes scan the gaggle of red-clad boys, thin practice jerseys hanging off each of them overtop different colored shirts, every single one of them looking disheveled and damp and like they're having the time of their lives, all smiling and laughing and shoving each other around the muddy pitch. A soft glow blooms in Sherlock's chest at the sight of them all, the memory of the party only a few short weeks ago replaying in his head the way they'd all accepted him into their circle, joked and laughed with him, and let him feel a part of it all.

It really had been a wonderful night.

Sherlock catches a few familiar faces before the only boy he truly has eyes for seems to appear out of thin air in the middle of the group, every other bloke falling away completely as the curly-haired boy's world narrows down to one.

It seems impossible after all these weeks of living together that the sight of John Watson still knocks the breath out of him but Sherlock has come to terms with the fact that his roommate is absolutely breathtaking no matter what he's doing, wearing or saying. He's completely gorgeous. And a damp, pink-cheeked, grungy John Watson with a smear of dirt across his jaw and a grin on his face makes Sherlock fall just a little bit more, sinking deeper into this bottomless pit of emotions about his roommate that had, at some unknown point, turned from pure lust to utter affection, the pull in his body coming from both directions now, his heart rolling adoringly while his lower belly warms tellingly. He's completely mad about this blond boy currently covered in dirt and grime.

And it's only getting worse, only getting stronger and firmer every single day.

Attempting another deep breath, Sherlock lets himself ogle the oblivious boy on the field, covered in mud like the rest of the team surrounding him. That boy who will be in Sherlock's room only a short while from now. That boy that will soon be beaming that radiant smile in Sherlock's direction over spicy curry or warm pasta or any number of tasty dinners John will supply because he's fucking _perfect_.

It's gloomy out today which means John will want something warm for dinner, which means he'll put on his softest sweatpants and thickest sweater and curl up cozily on his bed while he laughs and smiles and asks Sherlock all about his day over a hot dish of food.

Which means Sherlock will be having one of those nights where he has to physically restrain himself from crawling onto John's mattress with him and burying his face in the rugby player's soft jumper. It's not a new impulse but today Sherlock knows it will be a particularly strong one. At least he's getting better at anticipating which reaction John will invoke in him on any given day.

Small mercies, he supposes.

"I see you're still choosing to keep company with that vile specimen."

A round, faint shadow falls around Sherlock's feet, darkening his damp surroundings, the misty droplets of rain no longer landing gently on his cheeks and hair and Sherlock scowls at the sudden dryness and sudden company he certainly didn't request.

When he was younger, Sherlock had been convinced his older brother could do absolutely anything in the world. In fact, he'd been sure his sibling was some sort of magical wizard, constantly appearing out of thin air whenever Sherlock needed him, coming to his rescue with experiments gone wrong and shouting matches with his parents and headmaster's scolding at school. Sherlock was certain he'd always be there no matter what, no matter the issue at hand.

As a boy, Sherlock had found it fascinating and exciting.

Now, he just finds it incredibly _infuriating_.

Refusing to turn and look on principle, because really all he'll see is fat, concerned Mycroft Holmes standing beside him gripping a large black umbrella that is now shielding them both from the rain. Sherlock is certain the smugness is coming off his older brother in waves at the mere fact that he'd remembered to bring an umbrella and Sherlock hadn't.

Always petty, Holmes the elder.

"Ah," Sherlock sneers in response, "I see you and Greg have made up, then? How pedestrian, fighting with each other over _me_ of all people."

With an irritating sigh, Mycroft says, "He's dangerous, Sherlock. You need to be careful."

"If he's so dangerous, why are you dating him?" Sherlock retorts, knowing full well his brother isn't talking about Greg but the truth is too annoying to address directly. He'd already gotten an earful on the subject last week when Mycroft showed up, _uninvited_ , to his dorm room, playing the worried older sibling, treating his younger brother like a complete moron.

Mycroft clearly doesn't realize how idiotic he's being.

Victor Trevor? _Dangerous_? Please. The boy is an imbecile.

But even Sherlock knows that's not a nice thing to say about a friend and he's certain he and Victor are somewhere along the line of friends by now. He's almost certain. But what he is _most_ certain of is Victor is definitely _not_ dangerous. He's not smart enough to be dangerous.

But telling Mycroft that feels more annoying than anything else, so Sherlock keeps his mouth shut on the subject entirely.

"You should know better, Sherlock," Mycroft murmurs beside him, and Sherlock still refuses to look at him, though he can see the umbrella clearly in his peripheral vision and just make out the outline of Mycroft's slightly protruding belly.

"I should, you're right," Sherlock nods in agreement, eyes still locked on blonde fringe, tracking John's every movement across the field. "I'll have a talk with Greg about feeding you too many sweets. It seems I'd assumed he'd assist in your diet, not help you cheat on it."

"Sherlock, this situation is serious," Mycroft replies coolly. "You know what happened last time you mixed in with the wrong crowd."

"Yes, thank you so much for reminding me of my troubled youth. My god, _what_ would I do without you to continuously remind me of all my shortcomings?"

"I'm simply asking you to be careful, brother mine. I've found out some things about your Chemistry partner, though I'm certain you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, the bluff so obvious he hasn't any time to even pretend to go along with it. "You're right," he snips, "I wouldn't."

"Must you always learn the hard way simply to spite me?"

"Must you always interfere in my life?"

"I'm not interfering, I am simply trying to help you."

"And I don't _need_ your help. There is nothing to be helped. Everything is fine."

Mycroft breaks the squabble with a sigh, shaking the umbrella slightly to let loose the water gathering at the top. Sherlock watches John through the thicker rainfall, creating a rather picturesque scene, fighting down a soft smile as Mike tackles a laughing John into the mud, several other boys joining in as they dash around the dirty field, kicking up all kinds of filth and looking happy as ever. A twinge of jealousy pinches Sherlock's gut, silently wishing he were somehow involved in the activities before him, wishing he were included in unplanned rainy afternoon roughhousing, wishing he was something more than simply the odd roommate stalking along the path in hopes of catching a glimpse of tan skin and blue eyes.

It would be nice to be somewhat normal.

The team is slowly breaking apart, practice clearly coming to an end as a few of the boys holler their goodbyes to those still in the midst of after-practice tackling and Sherlock suddenly feels exposed creeping along the path and watching with undisguised fascination. He shuffles his feet slightly, attempting to break his trance-like stare and avoid getting caught outright ogling.

"Ugh," Mycroft grumbles beside him, shifting the umbrella away as he saunters closer to the field, tracking Greg Lestrade's movements to the bench to grab his practice bag. "Gregory will certainly need a shower before we go to dinner."

Sherlock doesn't dare respond seeing as his retort would be that Mycroft was a poncy bastard for needing his boyfriend to shower because if Sherlock had a boyfriend and that boyfriend was John Watson, Sherlock would never _ever_ make him shower off dirt and sweat and the delicious _John_ smell he has that Sherlock could just-

Cutting that thought off right at the knees before it gets out of hand, Sherlock turns away without a word from his departing brother currently headed in the direction of the team and takes off toward his dorm, suddenly needing desperately to escape before he does something exponentially stupid, like reveal his feelings to his _brother_ of all people.

"Sherlock," Mycroft calls to him before he can get too far. His steps falter long enough that his brother continues. "Please, simply think about what I said. If anything seems off to you about Victor Trevor at any given moment, anything at all, get away immediately and call me. Please."

"What, is he going to murder me?" Sherlock retorts, rounding on his stupid sibling, eyes round and condescending. "Then, why _wouldn't_ you want me to spend time with him? Surely if my demise is imminent by hang around Victor Trevor, you'd be only supportive. No more baby brother to concern yourself with."

A shudder crosses Mycroft's face so quickly and subtly, Sherlock is probably the only one who'd have caught it, before he schools his features back into indifference. "Tempting," Mycroft responds with a pinched smile. "However, I think a certain rugby player would miss you terribly if you were to perish."

With an overdone scoff in an attempt to distract from the blush currently creeping into his cheeks, Sherlock offers one hell of a glare in his sibling's direction, mustering all the fury he possibly can with a single stare, hoping the angry daggers in his eyes are evident.

Pressing his lips together, Mycroft shrugs, turning away from his brother as Greg jogs over, grinning like a besotted lunatic and pissing Sherlock off even more. "Have a good night, dear brother," Mycroft mumbles absently, turning away to return Greg's soppy look, eyes only for his boyfriend.

Greg waves to the curly-haired boy as he grabs Mycroft's hand and drags him off and Sherlock ignores him entirely, turning back around to get home and away from this conversation that has hit just a bit too close to the mark, because why does stupid, sodding _Mycroft_ have to bloody know _everything_ -

"SHERLOCK! OI, SHERLOCK HOLMES!"

Startled slightly out of his raging thoughts by the boisterous, though not unwelcome, voice of his Pong partner, Sherlock attempts not to grin too terribly hard, all thoughts of his irritating brother fading away as he turns back around to find Mike Stamford waving him down, jogging toward him from the muddy rugby field.

Which explains why Mike Stamford is completely covered in grime and muck, smears of dirt covering his white shirt and seemingly up to his knees in mud.

Sherlock laughs. "Lookin' good, Mike."

"London, right?" Mike spreads his arms wide and gestures down his torso with a shrug. "I suppose we've been lucky to avoid this kind of weather up until now. Where are you hurrying off to?"

"Dorm," Sherlock shifts his book bag on his shoulder from where he has the strap gripped in his hand, attempting to not make it obvious he'd been just about to race home in time to meet John for dinner.

"Oh yeah, it's about supper time, isn't it?" Mike grins knowingly with a wink and Sherlock refuses to react, though the capillaries in his cheeks don't seem to get the memo as they allow blood to fill them rapidly.

"Yeah," Sherlock tries to shrug it off and simultaneously shrink into nothing.

"Hey, listen," Mike continues, ignoring the moment and Sherlock appreciates him very much for it. "You should come to the game on Saturday. It's at home."

"Oh yeah?" Sherlock feigns ignorance, refusing to make it obvious that he'd actually already had plans to attend.

"Yeah," Mike grins. "And we're going to beat the hell out of them, so you should definitely come! I'm sure that, eh, _someone_ would appreciate it."

"Oh," Sherlock mumbles, unable to look Mike in the eye, though he must admit Mike's insinuations feel much less accusatory than Mycroft's do. Though it's still embarrassing. "Um, y-yeah, I was planning on… I'll be there."

"Great!" Mike beams at him. "It really will be a good game and then maybe after you can come to the party with us, too! We can play Pong and beat those suckers all over again, yeah?"

"Sure," Sherlock laughs, "that sounds like fun."

"Of course it does, I planned it so it's going to be fucking awesome!" Mike cheers, his enthusiasm clearly not only a thing when he's drunk.

Sherlock giggles, a small warm bubble heating his chest pleasantly at the idea of spending more time with the rugby boys, Mike in particular, at another weekend outing. He really did enjoy the last one. And this time he'll know better than to down three shots in one go.

"I'm sorry, but is that my posh prat of a roommate fraternizing with a _rugby brute_? In _public_?!"

That warm bubble promptly bursts into something else entirely, practically exploding and sending tiny shocks of delighted pleasure at the sound of John Watson's voice calling him out from down where he still stands in the midst of the muddy pitch, the cadence in his words lilted as though happily surprised to see Sherlock near the field. Biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to break skin to keep the grin from spreading ridiculously wide across his face, Sherlock finds it's absolutely no use against the brilliant, megawatt smile his roommate is currently radiating in his direction.

"John," he calls back with a nod to his roommate as the blond, filthy boy beams, rugby bag slung over what used to be a white t-shirt, the red practice jersey discarded and shoved haphazardly into his bag, the corners still peeking out from just inside the zipper. "I was just on my way home."

"What a coincidence," John grins, face exuding warmth in Sherlock's direction. "So was I."

Heart stuttering slightly for absolutely no reason at all considering this is fact, not innuendo, Sherlock nods once. "Right."

"Sherlock is coming to the game on Saturday," Mike crows proudly, smacking a light hand onto Sherlock's shoulder and shaking him slightly.

Round, cobalt eyes light up in his direction, practically blinding him with their brilliance. "Yeah?" John asks and Sherlock swears it sounds hopeful. "It's going to be a really good game."

"Yeah I'll uh, be there," Sherlock nods, unable to look into John's beautiful, happy eyes any longer.

However, his own seem to have plans of their own.

And without warning, his gaze wanders purposefully, trailing down his roommate's fit as hell form, tracing every line and curve, every grass stain and dirt smear, every deliciously unkempt inch of his stocky, compact dormmate, blonde hair twisted this way and that, blue eyes seeming to sparkle brighter against the dark contrast of mud caked along the creases of his cheeks.

Sherlock barely catches himself before he licks his lips hungrily, gaze snapping up to meet John Watson's famous smirk, lips quirked teasingly, a what may or may not be knowing look lining his features.

The genius boy prays he's far enough away that his appraising gaze wasn't quite as obvious as he fears it may have been. Cheeks darkening at the thought, Sherlock is just about to panic when John smiles wider and pleasant laughter bubbles over his lips. "Come down here," he bobs his head back in invitation and shakes his phone over his head. "I was just about to order takeaway."

"What're you having?" Mike's eyes widen, apparently deciding he's always invited as he makes his way back down the field with Sherlock in tow. Christ, do all rugby players love food like John?

"Something warm," John decides and Sherlock absently smirks inwardly at the fact that he'd been right.

"Ugh, I'm _starving_ ," Mike grouses, swiping a rugby ball up and out of a puddle of mud, tossing it in his hands absently.

"Same here," John agrees, glancing down at his phone, tongue sneaking out to press against his upper lip as he concentrates on reading the small print. Sherlock attempts not to watch the movement and fails. "It's bloody dark out today. I need hot food. What do you think, Sherlock? Indian? Or what about that little Italian place you like?"

The curly-haired boy hasn't exactly been listening. "You're all dirty," he blurts without a thought, eyes still raking up and down John's form at their own accord.

Glancing up from his mobile, one blonde, challenging brow popped upward, lips twitching with the effort not to laugh, John fixes him with a stare. "Yeah?" he counters. "So?"

"Well, I-…" Sherlock falters for a moment, desperately racking his brain for some other statement besides _I'd like to lick every dirty inch of you if that's alright_ , and just manages a coherent though. "Y-You can't get takeaway like that," he fumbles out, breathing a sigh of relief as that thought came out of nowhere.

John grins. "Says who?"

"Says societal standards," Sherlock volleys back, gathering himself enough to roll his eyes and ignore his burning cheeks.

"Well then, who is going to get our dinner?" John blinks at him in concern before his lip curls in a sneer. "Is your public school arse going to go get it?"

"Yes, I'm entirely incapable of getting takeaway because I'm a 'brat' right?" Sherlock sighs as though John is the most predictable human he's ever met, which by all means he is _not_. "I guess we'll just starve," Sherlock concludes, biting his lower lip to keep it from stretching into a smile.

He _loves_ it when John teases him.

"I guess so," John replies, nodding as though deeply in agreement. "Or we could get it together."

"Please, I am not going _anywhere_ with you looking like _that._ " Sherlock gestures up and down John's frame as though in utter disdain even as saliva pools in his mouth.

"Of course you're not," John sneers. "Posh git like yourself wouldn't be caught _dead_ out with a filthy rugby player in view of other people."

"Very good, John," Sherlock retorts, falling easily into their banter. "You're learning."

"Although, I suppose if you were just as muddied up as I am, well. No one would be the wiser about who exactly is the dirty athlete, now would they?"

It takes a beat for the implication to sink in before Sherlock has the wherewithal to react.

Eyes shooting wide in panic as he takes a hasty step back, Sherlock glances over his shoulder, eyeing the giant puddle only meters behind him, swallowing hard before turning back to his roommate watching him with laser focus. "Don't," he warns.

Blinking stupidly deep, distracting eyes, John follows the movement with a menacing step of his own forward. "Don't what?"

"John," Sherlock tries to scold, though the word falls a bit breathlessly from his mouth as a sharp _zing_ races up his spine, spreading a trail of thrilling little tingles all along his body, the threat of John doing anything to him making him thrum with barely contained excitement. Being under John's predatory gaze like this is positively _intoxicating_.

"All I'm saying," John continues casually as he stalks toward the genius with purpose, "is no would know the difference if you and I both walked into a restaurant with dirt and muck everywhere. You would be no posher than I."

"Okay, fine," Sherlock grants, holding a hand up to halt his roommate's movements, the very real threat of what is practically a swamp lingering behind him. "I concede. You win."

Smirking in triumph, John stops walking, crossing his arms over his chest and raising an eyebrow. "Thought I might," he glares proudly, body relaxing away from tense and determined to calm and cool and collected.

And somehow Sherlock is so reluctant for this little games over theirs to end, even with the high possibility of it ending with him in a mud pit, he can't help himself as he says, "Except, I am certain any idiot with half a brain would realize that I have never actually touched a rugby ball while it would be plainly obvious that you practically sleep with one."

Eyes glittering knowingly, features creasing wolfishly, John breaks their stand-off as he throws a quick glance over his shoulder where his teammate is still standing, grinning at them both in absolute delight. John ticks his head once, lifts his bag up and off his shoulder, drops it to the ground and turns back.

And Mike's grin expands.

"Hey, Sherlock," he calls from around John's shoulder and Sherlock has only a half-second to realize exactly what's happening as Mike winks at him. "Catch."

The rugby ball is suddenly flying through the air and Sherlock lifts his arms to catch it, the fear of it whacking him in the face than actual skill prompting his reflexes, and just as the filthy ball lands against his chest, cradled in his arms, something else comes into contact with his slender body and the world promptly tilts.

And all Sherlock's short-circuited brain can process is the fact that John Watson's strong, capable, powerful body colliding with his is the most exquisite thing he has ever experienced, every synapses in his brain firing rapidly on all cylinders, attempting desperately to announce to Sherlock over and over in case it wasn't abundantly clear that _John fucking Watson is touching him!_

Thick, firm arms lock around his thin middle and trail all the way to his lower back, pulling him closer into a muscled chest, warmth radiating off the torso pressed against his, somehow simultaneously soft yet fit and solid, lighting Sherlock's insides on fire at the sheer closeness of John Watson to him.

Though, he only gets a split second to enjoy it before his back is smacking wetly against the ground and his roommate is no longer on him but beside him, arm still slung around his waist, giggles racking the body beside him so loudly Sherlock can't help joining in.

"Ow!" he tries to yell, though it's tough to yell when laughing, gripping his hand on John's forearm to try to make him stop his infectious giggling. "Th-that… that _hurt_ you… y-you…"

"Me what?" John turns to shine beautiful blue eyes in Sherlock's direction, chest heaving and shaking still, smile even brighter against the splash of muddy water now splattered across his cheek.

"You _arse_ ," Sherlock finally manages, squeezing John's arm absently, practically soaking into the moment, while simultaneously soaking into the swamp, heart pounding harshly in his chest, insides twisting and turning and jumping up and down, somehow certain that this is _something_ , that _something_ is about to happen, though what that something is, Sherlock has no idea. But god, he _wants_ that something. Whatever it is. Give it to him. Please.

They haven't been this close since the night Sherlock blew up his experiment, though if the genius boy is honest he's been trying to get closer. Sometimes subconsciously, simply gravitating toward John on a regular basis, sometimes consciously, brushing fingers and legs against any part of his roommate he could reach, seeking some sort of contact, some sort of touch, some sort of connection with that beautiful boy. It's all he's thought about, laying hands on John, John laying hands on him, bodies touching in any and all ways possible, being closer and closer until they could breathe each other's air and stay in each other's space and be impossibly one.

And in his saner moments, in his moments where John isn't actively touching him, Sherlock knows these are the thoughts of a lunatic. He knows his want has gone far beyond the realms of appropriate, if it ever was in the bounds to begin with, and he's properly ashamed and embarrassed and internally scolded.

But right now, right where John's arm lay over his stomach, searing a fierce burn into Sherlock's skin beneath his shirt and making his eyes practically roll back in his head at the pleasure of it, Sherlock has no shame. None at all. Not when his fingers press gently into John's skin. Not when his gaze lingers just over the line of too long on John's lips. And especially not when he swears on everything he owns that he feels the softest brush of a thumb along his belly, the gentlest of caresses, the barest whisper of a touch, though Sherlock feels it bone deep, sizzling in his veins, the touch branding his very skin for all time.

Maybe he imagined it, maybe it didn't actually happen but Sherlock's body doesn't seem to care about reality or not because it fully believes it happened and is currently hustling down the halls of Sherlock's Mind Palace, filing away the touch into its proper location to be remembered and cherished always, to remind Sherlock what it could possibly be like to be touched by John in an intimate way, ever if he'd made the entire thing up.

And Sherlock is certain he'd had a whole day before this moment, almost positive he'd had other things going on, other activities, other people he'd spoken to. But right now, right here, as he gazes at his roommate lying in the mud along side him, Sherlock for the life of him can't remember anything about his day, let alone his entire existence, that didn't include John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING!! I'm terribly sorry this chapter took so long to get out, but I'm hoping and praying to have more time in the coming weeks! Thank you for sticking it out with me and I sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter! 
> 
> We're having a constant lovefest over at my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come say hello!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNINGS: There is some thinly veiled talk about date rape in this chapter! PLEASE KNOW THAT NOTHING LIKE THIS IS GOING TO HAPPEN IN THIS STORY! I PROMISE OKAY? ABSOLUTELY NOT. But there is discussions of it so please be advised and if this is a trigger for you PLEASE BE CAREFUL! Also warning: There is a cliffhanger at the end of this and there will be another in Chapter 11. All will be righted in Chapter 12. I think it's only fair to warn you!* 
> 
> _THANK YOU THANK YOU to ishaveforsherl for sticking it out with me through this chapter, I know it wasn't easy but your input is VITAL and I so so SO appreciate all your thoughts and feelings!!! You are THE VERY BEST AND I LOVE YOU DEARLY! Also special shoutout to essentially my beta but also awesome friend and confidant awkwardtiming, you saved my grammar ass and continuity stupidity in this chapter and I cannot thank you enough!! XOXOXO_  

"Alright boys, I want to… hey, I just… hello, seriously? I want to- Oi SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

The metal doors lining the inside of the locker room rattle with the strength of Greg Lestrade's shout as the rest of the ruby team falls silent, every mouth snapping shut and every eye turning to find their red-faced captain glaring out at the sea of them, though the corners of his mouth twitch as his team obeys him.

"That's better," he huffs, before letting his face split into a wide grin, beaming at his victorious teammates. "I just want to say well done, boys, truly. That was not an easy match today but you all brought your A game like I knew you would. Cheers boys!" He raises his water bottle in a quick salute out to the group, the team responding in kind with whoops and cheers and hollers of their own.

Scanning the group once more, Greg's eyes land on his target and he nods down to the blond, disheveled boy, looking all sorts of exhausted but still practically glowing, blinking at his captain with pride and admiration, offering a small nod in return as if to say _We did it, Cap. Nice work._

And Greg can't help but smirk at his friend who clearly thinks he's getting off without being called out. "And a particular shout out to our resident bisexual John Watson who had the eye of every single guy and girl in the stadium on him, though I'm quite certain our teammate here was playing for a certain madman, no?"

"Cheers, Johnny Boy!" Mike chimes in, giving a shove to John's shoulder. "I propose we add Sherlock Holmes to our team roster so he can travel with us to every single game and get Johnny here to play every match like he just did."

"I second that!"

"Third it!"

"Hell yes!"

"You are all a bunch of wankers, you know that?" John Watson snaps, the beet-red color in his face having nothing to do with the running he's just done.

"Yes, yes we do," Mike nods sympathetically, fighting the grin on his face unsuccessfully. "But you love us!"

"Not as much as he loves Sherlock!"

"Yeah, Johnny when are you going to make your move on that boy, anyway?"

"Wait, you're not together, yet?! What are you waiting on, mate?!"

"Go get your man!"

"Oh Jesus, _shut up_!" John snaps, even as his chest warms at the teasing. A bunch of wankers, absolutely, but he bloody loves this team and the jabbing only makes him feel more a part of it. "I hate all of you."

"Well now that's just a bold-faced lie," Mike teases, nudging him in the ribs.

"Alright, you all can continue to taunt the hell out of our Johnny at the party tonight, yeah?" Greg nods, smiling as the team cheers in response.

"Victory drinks at mine!" Mike yells, laughing as the team yet again bursts into celebration.

"Okay okay, get out of here, all of you," Greg chuckles, waving them off. "And please, for the love of Christ Mike, _shower_ before everyone gets there. No one wants to smell the pitch and your long-since-dried sweat while they attempt to enjoy a beer."

"Oi, it's the smell of victory!" Mike rebuts, lobbing a towel at his captain with a laugh.

"That's disgusting," John giggles, peeling his cleats and socks off and stuffing them into his bag.

"What, you think you smell like a bed of roses?" Mike drops down beside John on the bench and follows suit.

"No. Hence the shower."

"Okay it was _one time_ that I hadn't showered when you lot showed up, why must that single incident label me as the smelly one? Besides I live alone! I don't have a gorgeous genius I need to get all dolled up for every day." Mike bats his eyelashes and tips his head, apparently attempting to look pretty.

John tosses his head back and laughs. "Just please," he coughs out around a chuckle, " _please_ shower before we get there."

"Yeah yeah," Mike rolls his eyes as he tugs his black team jacket on adorned with his last name and number on the back. "You're bringing Sherlock tonight, right?"

"That's the plan," John grins down into his rugby bag as he fishes out his own coat. "If he'll agree to go, that is."

"Oh I'm sure that won't be an issue," Mike shakes his head as though John is ridiculous for even thinking Sherlock may not come. "Just remind him of all the Pong games we beat your arse in last time and he'll definitely want to come."

"Okay, it was all of one game you beat us in, thanks."

"Sorry, what?" Mike cups his ear. "I couldn't hear you over all the winning."

"Oh fuck _off_ ," John shoves his teammate, laughing in spite of himself. "You are an arrogant tosser, you know that?"

"I do," Mike grins, giggling as he zips his jacket.

"You lot behave yourselves tonight, you hear me?" Greg shoves a finger at them as he weaves through the team slowly meandering their way out of the locker room. "I won't be there to keep you in line so I'm trusting you not to act like morons."

"Is that so?" Mike side-eyes him knowingly, lip curling in a sneer. "Does good ol' Cap have a _date_ tonight?"

"Damn right I do," Greg laughs, though his chest puffs out a bit. It's a bit endearing how happy Greg is, John thinks. Especially since the person making him happy is _Mycroft Holmes_ of all people.

"Jesus, how come everyone on this damn team has dates except _me_?" Mike pouts, shooting a narrowed glare at his captain.

"Hey, I don't either," John attempts to assert.

He's shut down immediately by two pairs of eyes pinning him with an _Oh, please_ look so identical that John can't help bursting into laughter. "It's that obvious, huh?"

"John, you played the game of your life today because he was watching," Greg says in a tone that is meant to convey how obvious this fact alone is. "If it wasn't obvious from everything else you two do together, that would have clinched it."

"Oh, actually, speaking of Sherlock," Mike drops his voice slightly, glancing quickly around to make sure the rest of the team is out of earshot. "I, uh, talked to Paul earlier. I let him know Victor isn't welcome at my house."

"Oh shit," John scrubs a hand down his face, a pang of guilt stabbing the back of his neck. "You didn't need to do that, Mike."

"'Course I did," Mike flaps his hand impatiently, "you're one of my boys and I fucking love Sherlock, he kills me, so it needed to be said that you two take priority. But that's not the point."

John makes a mental note to tell Sherlock that Mike adores him, already thinking of ways to drop it subtly so as not to embarrass his roommate. But he should know. Sherlock should know more people out in the world like him for who he is.

It's important.

"Well, we would have come either way," John shrugs. "Victor Trevor isn't going to keep me from living my life."

Greg makes a sound that could only be described as something like a growl but Mike continues anyway.

"Well, turns out I didn't even need to say anything," Mike shrugs. "Sounds like Paul and Victor are on the outs."

"Good," Greg bites out. "He shouldn't be hanging out with that prick. That guy is not safe to be around."

"Yeah, Paul didn't seem too thrilled with him after they stopped by the gym last week," John agrees, nodding sympathetically. As much as he hates Victor, he wouldn't wish a bad living situation on his friend. His heart goes out to Paul. It must be so awkward.

"No, but even after that," Mike went on, eyes widening a bit. "I think something else happened."

"What something?" John inquires, gut twisting slightly. He has barely said two words to Paul outside of plays and drills at practice and games in the last week, since his friend seems to be hell-bent on hurrying off as quickly as possible afterward, seemingly avoiding John at all costs.

Mike sighs heavily. "I think you'd better talk to him."

"What happened?" Greg steps forward, looking as worried as John.

"Guys, it's not my place," Mike tosses his hands up in front of him as if to hold them off. "You gotta talk to Paul."

"Did he do something? Did that slimy arsehole do something to Paul?" Greg demands, eyes lighting with fury.

Mikes sighs heavily before glancing down at his sneakers. "It's uh… It's not Paul you need to be worrying about."

"What?" John snaps, stomach flipping in panic, certain he already knows the answer but needing to ask the question anyway. "What does that mean?"

"I don't have all the details," Mike hurries to say. "Really, I don't. You… you need to talk to Paul, alright? He thinks you're mad at him, so you need to make the first move, here."

"Mike," Greg growls. "What do you know?"

"Nothing," Mike shakes his head like he wishes so much that he did know. "Paul's just been being really cryptic and weird and I… I think Victor is bad news. Like serious bad news. Something is definitely off."

"Well I could have told you that," Greg snips with a glare.

"Look, I don't think he's going to like _murder_ anybody but-" Mike cuts himself off and levels his gaze with John's, eyes focusing intensely. "You need to be careful with Sherlock. This is total speculation but I think that Victor wants something from him."

"He wants something alright," Greg bites out softly but fiercely, vision going unfocused slightly.

John understands the feeling perfectly, his own blood currently boiling like liquid fire under his skin. "I'll keep him safe," he murmurs to no one in particular, already picturing boarding up the door to their dorm room with thick wooden slats and sealing Sherlock and himself away safely inside.

"Good," Mike nods, "That's good. But talk to Paul, okay? I mean, maybe it's not as serious as it seems but better to be safe than sorry, right?"

"Sure," John nods. "We'll see you tonight."

Mike nods before breaking into a grin in a clear attempt to lighten to mood. "Don't forget that epic Pong-playing roommate of yours."

Attempting to offer a smile, John nods to his friend and flicks a wave as Mike leaves the locker room before he blows out a breath and scrubs a hand down his face. "So," he says to his captain, already feeling defeated. "What do you think that was about?"

"I think you'd better find out tonight," Greg drops down beside him. "I won't be there but keep me in the loop, yeah? Myc said something similar about Victor being a bad guy but I thought he was just being an overprotective big brother, you know? But now… Now I don't know what to think."

"Me neither," John agrees, gut twisting unpleasantly. "But what I do know is Sherlock won't be spending another minute alone with Victor Trevor. Not if I can help it."

Expecting a resounding agreement, John waits a silent beat before turning to find Greg not only not cheering his support but looking uncertain and a bit concerned. "John," he says with a heavy-burdened sigh that only those who know Sherlock Holmes can manage. "You know Sherlock won't take kindly to you interfering with his life, right?"

Brow wrinkling in confusion, John frowns at his friend. "What?"

"John, do you have any idea how many times Myc has tried to get through to Sherlock about things? About _anything_? He doesn't listen unless it's his idea."

"Well that's because Mycroft is his brother," John dismisses, even as a prick of realization worms itself into his brain. "I'm his friend."

"Exactly," Greg nods emphatically, "which is why you need to play this carefully. If you tell Sherlock anything along the lines of something he himself doesn't recognize, he will shut down entirely. For some unknown reason, he gets along with Victor. He doesn't seem to see that there is something off there. If you ride in on your white horse and announce that Sherlock missed something about his new friend, how do you think that'll make him feel?"

Oh.

Oh Jesus _Christ_.

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks and John inhales sharply. "Shit," he grounds out from between clenched teeth. "You're right."

"Yeah," Greg nods though he doesn't look pleased about it.

Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, John sighs heavily as the weight of reality settles onto his shoulders. "How does he not see it?" he mumbles, shaking his head before looking up at his Captain. "Sherlock is the smartest person I have ever met. And yet, he doesn't _see_ what a fucking _creep_ Victor is? How is that possible?"

"I have no idea," Greg agrees with a sigh. "Victor must be a stellar actor in front of Sherlock."

"Must be," John grumbles angrily.

"Myc says for as intelligent as Sherlock is, sometimes he misses the bloody obvious." Greg shifts his bag on his shoulder and shrugs slightly as though in understanding. "I mean, it can't be easy for him, you know? He's hardly had any friends before. It's probably hard for him to see past the façade of a friendly face to what's really behind the mask."

"Yeah," is all John can manage to respond, the truth of Greg's words ringing truer and more accurate than he cares to admit. He ignores the slight pull his heart gives like it always does at the thought of a lonely Sherlock Holmes. He silently swears to himself all over again that he'll never let Sherlock be alone again.

While simultaneously swearing to never let Victor Trevor near his roommate ever again.

"You've got to play this smart," Greg says again softly. " _We've_ got to play this smart."

"We?" John asks, body taking a break from its panic long enough for him to pop an amused eyebrow at his captain. "What, is this the Keeping Sherlock Holmes Safe Task Force now?"

"Hell yes it is," Greg chuckles. "We've got to save the mad bastard from himself."

"Well thank god you date his older brother," John giggles. "Otherwise, I'd be all on my own for this."

Laughter slowly waning, Greg shakes his head. "No, you wouldn't. We're a team, John. We're all here for each other."

Unexpectedly touched, John blinks for a moment. "I-… thanks, mate. Really, that, uh- means a lot."

Greg grins. "You're welcome. Now go find your dorm mate, I am certain he's out there waiting for you. But keep me updated, yeah? We should have some sort of… I dunno, texting system or something in place. This task force needs to have solid communication."

"Agreed," John smiles despite the situation, warming all over to the idea that he's got such an incredible group of guys around him and, more importantly around _Sherlock_. "We'll keep him safe."

"Let me know how your chat with Paul goes."

Stomach clenching uncomfortably at the idea of talking to Paul after a week of silence, John manages a nod. "I will," he bids as Greg offers a sympathetic smile and heads out the door.

John shoves the thoughts of the evening aside, slipping on his trainers, zipping up his black cotton rugby jacket - appreciating the fact that Greg didn't skimp out on cheap sweats considering the temperature has dropped rapidly in the past week – and shoulders his bag. He probably should take a shower but he can do that when he gets back to his room; right now there is a tall, dark and handsome bloke waiting for him in the bleachers.

Grinning to himself stupidly, John hurries out of the locker room and back out onto the field, eyes already scanning the small, lingering crowd, finally allowing himself to look full on. He'd only caught glimpses of his roommate throughout the game, never able to give his full attention to the stands to seek him out. He actually hadn't even been sure Sherlock was there until their before-game huddle, where Greg had gripped his shoulder and whispered, "He's here. I just saw him come in."

And a shiver of excitement had rippled through John's already heated body, the idea of Sherlock Holmes here to watch him do what he does best somehow thrilling him to his core.

Sherlock is brilliant at everything, constantly showing off, proving his genius time and time again, on a daily basis, always to John's awe. It was nice to finally be the one to show-off, to prove that he is decent at something, even if it a silly little sport that he's sure Sherlock deems quite beneath him.

But it doesn't matter because Sherlock is _here_. Sherlock came to watch _John_.

That's got to mean something, right?

Of course everything seems to mean something to John, lately.

And as he gets closer to the stands, seeking one dashing, curly-haired bloke, grin already plastered on his face in preparation of seeing his roommate, John realizes how truly sloppy he's getting about hiding his feelings. How completely obvious they've become.

And how much Sherlock has done absolutely nothing to hinder it.

Maybe he's reading too much into it. Maybe Sherlock is just unsure how to ask him to back off. Maybe he's oblivious to it.

Or maybe.

Just maybe…

Maybe Sherlock likes it.

Maybe Sherlock likes the attention.

Or maybe Sherlock likes _John_.

It is twisted how thrilling that thought alone is, that Sherlock could possibly return his feelings, even the smallest chance sends tiny trickles of anticipation down every fiber of John's being, the idea that he had even the smallest of shots with Sherlock Holmes almost unbearably exhilarating.

Of course now, as he lays eyes on that beautiful boy, currently leaning against the steal bleachers, hands shoved in snug jean pockets, red university sweatshirt pulled tightly over his chest and arms, curls fluttering around in the light wind, all the confidence and courage John can muster in the privacy of his own head seems to dissipate, leaving in its wake a nervous energy he can't do much else with besides fall back into their now comfortable friendship, not moving forward or backward, simply standing still in his comfort zone.

It's Sherlock's fault, really, John decides. It's Sherlock's fault that he looks so fucking good in a goddamn sweatshirt and an average pair of jeans, rendering John completely speechless on how to move things forward with this gorgeous bloke because he has no business lusting after someone this good-looking in the first place, let alone someone as brilliantly intelligent as Sherlock Holmes.

The snark of the genius boy, however, is right on par with John.

And he can't help but think of how well they truly fit together like two pieces of a puzzle complementing each other, fitting in to each other's jagged edges and round corners. They have common ground and uneven ground and downright separate levels all together, but it's still fine, it's all fine, it works perfectly.

And John wishes so much, as he sneaks closer to the unassuming boy propped against the stands, that he had the guts to say all this without the very real fear of Sherlock spinning on his heel and bolting, never to be seen or heard from again.

It's too scary.

There is too much at stake.

Besides, Sherlock isn't alone at the moment so how could John even-

Wait.

 _Wait_.

Sherlock isn't alone.

Sherlock is _with_ someone.

And John Watson finds it almost impossible to breathe all of a sudden as the angry raging beast that lives within him rears its ugly head and scents the air, growling low in its throat at the sight of a rather pretty brunette girl standing to Sherlock's left, green eyes locked on John's roommate, gently curled hair bouncing down around her shoulders.

Apparently, the animal currently scraping at the ground and howling its fury didn't get the memo that Sherlock is gay.

And Sherlock _is_ gay.

Right?

Oh Christ, but what if he isn't? What if he's straight? Or bi? What if he's been straight or bi or some other sexual orientation John can't even think of right now all along and John grossly misinterpreted every conversation they've had on the subject? Sherlock has never actually said the words out loud, after all. Sherlock has never specified anything at all.

Jesus, Sherlock didn't really bring a girlfriend to John's game, did he?

_Girlfriends aren't really my area._

The words rattle around in John's head again, rearranging themselves and suddenly meaning different things entirely to what John had assumed. Maybe when Sherlock said girlfriends, he actually meant relationships? Maybe John had heard wrong? Maybe Sherlock has been dating this brunette girl for _months_ since that conversation right under John's nose?

God, but they are pretty together. Both holding a dark, posh air about them, equally assessing eyes watching and judging, posture perfect, confidence oozing effortlessly.

Jesus Christ, first Victor fucking Trevor and now _this girl_?

The furious beast in John's chest roars in outrage.

And just as he's second guessing even walking over, considering just going home on his own, having no interest in being a part of this little pow-wow, sharp green unfamiliar eyes are locking in on him, the girl finding him and pinning him down with her gaze.

And to John's utter shock, she _smirks_.

Why does Sherlock attract the worst kinds of people? Why must they all be mysterious and confident and make John feel about two inches tall?

He has no idea but the girl is leaning over and murmuring to his roommate and, to John's utter delight, Sherlock snaps his head around, sky-blue eyes racing across the field to find him, features softening slightly as they land on John making his way across the field.

And as though at its own accord, Sherlock's hand comes up to flick a wave at him, the corners of his mouth pulling up gently into a shy smile and tugs harshly at John's heartstrings, the animal inside of him fading away back into its cave, forgetting he was ever jealous at all because the look on Sherlock's face is everything, and he absolutely isn't beaming those beautiful features in the direction of the girl beside him.

And John does his absolute best not to smirk in the girl's direction in victory.

He's not sure if he succeeds.

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" John says when he's close enough to be heard without shouting.

" _Me_?" Sherlock snaps indignantly, though his features flush a pretty shade of pleasant pink. " _I'm_ not the one covered in dirt."

"True, but you are the one who attended a rugby game at his own free will," John counters with an eyebrow raise. "Who would have ever thought my high-class roommate would be attending an athletic event willingly."

"Hey, this is not my first game, thank you very much," Sherlock glares triumphantly.

"Oh really?" John teases with a smirk. "Have you been attending my matches in _secret_?"

The smugness drops rapidly from Sherlock's face, something akin to horror replacing it as red stains his sharp cheekbones. "No," he snaps, though the bite is hindered by the blush spreading across his face. "I attended the uh-… the one… it wasn't an official match, but it's the-…"

"The scrimmage," the girl beside him supplies, stepping up beside him and smirking upward as Sherlock glares down at her harshly. "We attended your first scrimmage here."

"Ah," John replies, hoping his tone isn't as icy as his mind wishes it to be. "And you are?"

"Irene Adler," the girl flutters her lashes and sticks out a dainty hand, nails red as blood as she wiggles her fingers. "Pleased to meet you, John."

"Wait, you… you're the other Chemistry partner, right?" The name Irene is suddenly familiar, though John has only heard it a few times.

He groans internally. Another gorgeous human being that spends far more time with his roommate than he cares for.

"The _best_ Chemistry partner, yes," Irene smiles, though there is a spark in her eye, her lips practically pulled into a sneer as John shakes her hand, like she knows a naughty secret about him already after a 30-second interaction.

He doesn't like it. "Got it," John replies with a tight smile. "Nice to meet you, Irene."

"Yes yes," Sherlock flips his hand dismissively, "now you've met him, are you happy? Can you be on your way?"

Cocking a confused brow in his dormmate's direction, Sherlock doesn't seem to be paying attention to John at all as he continues to glare at the girl by his side, who seems perfectly at ease with Sherlock's snappishness.

"Sure," she offers an insincere smile in his direction before dropping a wink and a knowing grin in John's direction. "I'll see you boys later."

And with that, Irene spins around and takes off without a second glance, sashaying away with all the confidence in the world.

John hates her just a little bit. "Will she be seeing us later?" he asks in a low voice, though Irene is already far out of earshot.

"Unfortunately," Sherlock sighs, starting off in the direction of their dorm, John trailing behind. "She's coming to Mike's tonight."

"Oh," John sighs, deflating slightly. He'd really wanted Sherlock all to himself tonight at the party, no other people there to steal Sherlock's attention. He gathers himself enough to reply, "Well it's good to know you're coming tonight. Mike wanted me to inform you that you'd better come as he plans on another undefeated evening at the Pong table."

"Is that so?" Sherlock replies, attempting to look unconcerned, though his cheeks tint a soft pink and John doesn't miss the quietly pleased grin on his face.

"Yup." John can't seem to help himself. "So Irene can see you dominate the table. You and she are… what, exactly?"

"Friends, apparently," Sherlock rolls his eyes, sighing as though this friendship with Irene has been put upon him unwillingly.

"Just friends?"

It's out of his mouth before he can catch it and swallow it back down and John looks away, refusing to meet Sherlock's sharp eyes as he whips his head.

"What?"

Attempting to shrug nonchalantly, John looks out back toward the field, ignoring the stare boring into the back of his neck. "Just curious," he mumbles, feeling so unbelievably stupid.

"Oh, I- no… _God_ , no," Sherlock's voice shudders slightly and John turns back just in time to see the end of a revolted shiver make it's way through the genius. "Ugh, _no_ , absolutely not. Irene is a lesbian."

The adamant denial makes John feel a bit better, and he kicks his shoulders back a notch, not having realized he'd been slouching a bit in defeat, like he'd just lost the battle in the war for a shot with his roommate.

An opportunity he still apparently doesn't have the balls to take. "Oh," he nods, "and so you're… _not_ into lesbians, I take it?"

He can't fight the grin as he watches Sherlock's curls bounce along for the ride as he turns sharply to gape at John, no doubt a denial prepped and ready on his tongue.

Until he sees his roommate's face and promptly cools off, body sagging from where it had been poised and ready to pounce. "Oh, very funny," he huffs from between twitching lips and John can't help bursting into laughter, shaking his head fondly.

"What, you thought I didn't know what a lesbian was?" John giggles, nudging Sherlock with his elbow.

"Well, I couldn't be certain," Sherlock replies gravely, eyeing John carefully. "Sometimes I wonder where some of the facts you've got in that funny little brain of yours come from."

The jab only serves to make John laugh harder. "Ah yes, Mister Computer Brain," he chokes out between giggles. "How could you ever comprehend a tiny mind like mine?"

"It's a difficult task," Sherlock chuckles. "Tell me, John, is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing."

Wiping tears of mirth from his eyes as they enter into their residence hall, John just catches a glimpse of the look on Sherlock's face. The pleased creases of his eyes and the soft parted awe of his lips, the look John strides for every single day, the one that says _I can really be myself with you? You're really okay with this?_

John wishes he could say it straight out, that yes, good _god_ yes he is absolutely hysterical and insanely intelligent and perfect in every sodding way possible and John wouldn't have him any other way other than his complete and utter self.

"Oh god, is it," John feigns relief, puffing out a harsh breath as though he'd been holding it in. "It is so relaxing being an idiot, I swear, knowing such trivial things like the earth orbiting the sun is just so calming. I love being a moron."

"Are you _ever_ going to let that go?" Sherlock whinges, shoving his key into the lock on their room and pushing it open, attempting to hide the shaking of his shoulders as he laughs silently.

"Nope," John laughs, remembering all too fondly a few weeks back having a lovely conversation about daylight savings time and Sherlock's blank stare when John tried to explain it, muttering, "The earth goes around the sun? Hm. Must have deleted it," in the most confused tone John had ever heard, only to throw his hands up in the air and exclaim furiously that it didn't matter, that it was useless information and that John was an idiot for knowing it.

John hadn't laughed that hard in a long time, certain he'd stared at his roommate with giant hearts in his eyes for the remainder of the night, silently adoring him and his insane brain deleting 'useless' information because he was just that intelligent and just that ridiculous.

"What does it matter if the earth goes around the sun or the moon or bloody Saturn-"

"Ah, so you _do_ know your planets!"

"It doesn't make any difference. All that matters to me are facts that I will need in my life. Things about Chemistry, and science and important information like-"

"Like how long it will take for that thing under your bed to grow legs, walk on out here and start talking to you?" John shoves his bag under his bed and drops down into his chair. "We should start thinking of names for it since it'll be a third roommate soon. Like… Walter? Or what about Charlie? Wait, is it a boy or a girl? Gosh, it's all so _exciting_ , isn't it?"

"For your information," Sherlock snips, turning to glare at John, "I binned it."

"You binned _Walter_?!" John gasps in horror. "You bastard! I trusted you with him!"

"It wasn't a _he_ ," Sherlock tries to scold through the laughter bubbling over his lips. "It was just mold."

"Ah," John nods, settling back in his chair, as though perfectly at ease. "I see. Just mold. Not Walter. Just a fucking pile of toxic chemicals that could kill us. No big deal."

"None whatsoever," Sherlock agrees, eyes narrowing in on John, daring him to challenge it.

They regard each other for a moment before both bursting into laughter.

"Christ you are barking mad," John giggles, unzipping his jacket and peeling it off his still somewhat sweaty body, kicking off his trainers and moving to tug his jersey over his head. "Okay Crazy, I am going to go shower. Please don't do anything weird while I'm gone?"

"Define weird," Sherlock retorts, dropping down to his own desk and flipping open his laptop.

Still giggling madly, happy warmth filling his entire body, John peels his damp jersey up and over his head, tossing it into his hamper and grabbing his towel, rummaging in his drawers for some sweats to throw on after his shower. "Just try to keep the room in one piece, how about?"

"But the room _isn't_ a single piece, John," Sherlock argues from behind John, still perched at his desk as John gathers his things to head to the boy's dorm floor loo. "It's made up of several pieces and different walls and… a-and…"

"And?" John prompts, turning back around to challenge the stuttering of his mad roommate, only to catch the tail end of Sherlock quickly spinning back around to face his laptop once more, clearly having been facing John. The blond boy can just make out the hint of a blush sneaking up his roommate's neck.

"Nothing," Sherlock mumbles, suddenly finding something interesting in the text on his laptop, refusing to turn back around.

Eyeing him curiously with a raised eyebrow that the genius can't see, John takes a step forward. "Alright?" he asks softly, concern coloring his words.

"Fine," Sherlock snips, still refusing to face him. "I was just saying that it would be virtually impossible to keep the room in a single-"

"Okay, okay I get it," John chuckles, flipping his towel over his bare shoulder, deciding to let the moment go. Whatever just happened is clearly not something Sherlock wants to discuss seeing as the boy is currently curled over his laptop in silence.

Sighing inwardly, John grabs his items and heads toward the door, deciding to keep himself inside this happy little bubble he's been floating in since Greg told him Sherlock was at the game and decides one last offering wouldn't be the worst thing.

"Also, uh-" John stammers, hand on the door handle, prepped and ready to yank it open and flee after he shows his hand rather spectacularly. "Thank you for coming to my match. It really… it was uh-… it was really nice having you there."

It's the kind of stupid, sentimental thing he's been prone to blurt out as of recently, since _You're beautiful, John_ is still rattling harshly around his head every single time he lays eyes on Sherlock Holmes. Kind of like when he found a reason to tackle Sherlock a few short days ago, pleased as all get out with himself at his own cleverness.

Though now that he looks back on it, and all the other things he's said and done thinking he was quite sneaky about it all, he finds himself wondering again if he's being obvious? Too obvious?

Does Sherlock know?

Does Sherlock care?

Does Sherlock _like_ it?

And just as he's pressing down on the door handle and disappearing into his own tumultuous thoughts, the response comes and John grins.

"You're welcome," is the gentle reply from the boy across the room with his back still facing John.

"I hope you'll come to another," John rushes to say, following more steadily with, "Also, pick what you want for dinner and I'll go grab it after I shower," before actually bolting, deciding that's as much soppiness he can take without actually running back in and planting a giant smacker on his roommate's lips.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Sherlock!" Mike's bright, already somewhat glassy eyes are full of excitement as he whips open the door to his flat and pins his gaze on John's roommate, the sounds of a party already in full-swing filtering out from the open doorway.

"Mike," Sherlock nods, giggling softly at the boy beaming in front of him and John's heart does a slow roll at the sound, something fluttering around inside his chest and making him warm all over.

Christ does he love it when Sherlock Holmes giggles.

And yet, he still has the wherewithal to give his teammate hell.

"Oi, am I invisible?" John flicks his fingers at his teammate with an indignant huff.

"Oh, I don't care about you," Mike waves his hand dismissively; though the bite in his words is tempered by the somewhat sloppy wink he drops in John's direction. "My Pong Partner is here and I need to get to continuing my undefeated status immediately."

"Is the table ready?" Sherlock inquires, glancing around as they follow Mike inside, scooting around the already packed house, attempting to seem calm and collected, though John can see his fingers twitching behind his back, his entire body seeming to thrum with excited energy.

John doesn't know why seeing Sherlock in an element where people accept and like him pleases him so much but it truly does and his chest gives another adoring pull, the sight of Sherlock Holmes happiness infecting John until his face is stretched in an overly-delighted grin. Especially after the last time when Sherlock had been so horribly nervous he'd barely spoken a word until Mike swung in and saved the day.

Yes, an excited, sparkly-eyed Sherlock Holmes is far better than a terrified one.

"We just set it up and it's ready to go," Mike waves them in toward the small front room where a few people are milling around, and just as he'd said, a card table is set up with ten red cups on either side. "I told them no one gets to play until you got here. We need to christen the table with a solid win!"

"No drinks first?" John asks, satisfied that his voice isn't giving away the joyful buzz in his system from the sight of a pleased Sherlock Holmes.

"Hell no, the table is empty and ready for us!" Mike cheers and Sherlock laughs, tossing a glance in John's direction that he's in clear agreement.

"Well fine," John throws a playful glare at the pair of his friends grinning eagerly at him. "I guess I'll just faff off and let you boys get down to it. Just leave me here all on my own."

"Oh, did you wanna go up against us already?" Mike blinks at him, a smirk playing along his lips. "Want an arse –kicking so early in the night, Johnny Boy?"

"Oh sod off, the both of you," John laughs.

" _I_ didn't say anything," Sherlock replies, looking the perfect picture of affronted even as his mouth twitches.

" _You_ didn't have to," John glares pointedly, though he's fighting a grin. "I can read you like a book Sherlock Holmes."

"You still think you're getting better at observing?" Sherlock teases as Mike wanders off to gather beers for the table.

"Like you wouldn't believe," John agrees. "I've already started construction on my Mind Palace."

Sherlock snorts. "Do you even know where to begin with building a Mind Palace?"

"Well I know you take up the entire first floor so far," John replies thoughtfully. "I figure I'll just build around that."

"Don't forget about the Rugby Floor," Sherlock warns. "Or the Useless Information Floor. Those are both quite important for you."

"Right. So, what, does all my school work go on the Useless Information Floor or just primary school stuff?"

"Both. Most definitely both."

"Alright, Genius, how about I do what I like with the floors in my Mind Palace, hm?" John snaps as Sherlock giggles. "It's not like you'll know anyway."

"I'll know."

"Oh yeah? How?"

"You said it yourself, John," Sherlock grins as Mike returns toting several beers and a slightly smile on his face. "I'm a genius."

"You're an arse is what you are," John retorts, snatching a beer from Mike's grasp and glaring at his roommate over the top as he takes a sip.

"Oi, those are for the game," Mike cries indignantly as he pours beer into each cup.

"I'm sure there isn't plenty more in the fridge," John laughs as Mike rolls his eyes and hands the remainder of the cans to Sherlock.

"Will you fill up the other side?"

Sherlock takes them with a nod and hurries to the opposite side of the table and John can't help sending a soppy look in his roommate's direction as the genius boy takes to his important job of pouring beer in cups very seriously.

Christ, he is so goddamn _adorable_.

"Paul is in the kitchen," Mike murmurs, stealing a glance at the boy across the table, ensuring he is out of earshot. "If you want to talk to him now and get it over with."

"Ah, thank you mate," John nods, gut clenching in a small panic. "Fuck, I hate this."

"I know," Mike agrees sympathetically. "Go get it over with so you can come back and watch your boy dominate the table."

"Don't count your chickens before they hatch," John warns teasingly. "You never know. Sherlock could be totally off his game tonight."

"Oh, I meant your boy meaning me," Mike glowers while battling a quirking corner of his mouth. "Don't you wanna watch me win for you, Johnny?"

"Jesus Christ," John bursts out laughing as Mike follows with chuckles of his own.

"Get outta here," Mike nods his head toward the kitchen. "We don't need you here to get a win!"

"Yeah yeah," John rolls his eyes and spins on his heel, stomach rolling a bit as he remembers what he's got to do now.

"Where are you going?"

And suddenly, John's stomach is rolling for a whole different reason.

Sherlock sounds a bit nervous, like John is planning to run out and leave him here on his own.

Like he doesn't _want_ John to leave him here on his own.

Like he doesn't want John to leave him at _all_.

That thought alone forms thick bands around John's chest and squeezes, feeling that familiar ache at how much he wishes he could wrap Sherlock up in his arms and hold him forever. It physically hurts to turn around and find grey, worried eyes trained on him and being unable to do a single thing about it besides attempt to reassure the anxious genius with words.

"I'll be back in a bit, I'm going to go catch up with the team real quick," John offers, attempting to soothe the soft wrinkle that's formed between Sherlock's beautiful eyes without running his thumb along it.

"Oh," Sherlock nods, clearly attempting to look unfazed, though the concern still lingers in his irises.

John doesn't want to leave him, which is ridiculous since he'll be all of seven meters away but still he hates it and he hates the look on Sherlock's face.

But he desperately needs to talk to Paul.

"Go get 'em, Champ," he bids, hoping the praise will ease the stress. "I'll be back in a flash to see you win, yeah?"

And, to John's utter delight, that seems to do it.

"Okay," Sherlock beams at him even as his face darkens a shade, though at the suggestion of the victory or the nickname itself, John isn't sure, but it doesn't matter because grey irises are turning bluer and happier and it's all John could want.

He drops a quick wink and a soft, probably overly adoring smile at his precious roommate before making his way back to the kitchen to seek out him teammate, body warmer than before from a simple interaction with the boy he has no business feeling this way toward.

Attempting to shake it off and focus on the task at hand – keeping said boy safe and sound – John finds his way through the small crowd of people, only half-heartedly acknowledging those who say hello to him, having no time for small talk this evening.

Paul is cracking open a beer as John rounds the corner, blessedly alone in the messy kitchen practically overflowing with all different types of alcohol. Taking the moment to view his friend full on for the first time in a week, John goes unnoticed long enough for him to take in the sight of Paul Dimmock looking… well, _not_ like Paul Dimmock. Not like Paul Dimmock _at all_.

While still tan like the rest of the rugby crew, Paul's skin now holds a certain paleness, almost gaunt, like he hasn't gotten a proper night's sleep in days. His hand shakes ever so slightly as he raises the bottle to his lips and closes his eyes as though the taste of fresh beer is somehow a blessing on his tongue, a soft sigh escaping his nose following a harsh swallow. He looks… beaten down. Worn out. Defeated.

Which is not how a rugby player should look after the big win they'd had this afternoon.

John's heart sinks just slightly, concern roiling harshly in his belly, fear creeping along close behind at what could have possibly caused his teammate to look quite like this.

The answer is obvious but that doesn't stop the bile from rising up John's throat, the absolute worst of ideas already forming in his head and the determination to keep his roommate out of harms way strengthening all the more.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, John steals himself and squares his shoulders.

"Hey Paul," he approaches gently and cautiously, only to take a quick step back when Paul practically jumps out of his skin. "Woah, Jesus, sorry," John hurries to add, feeling immensely guilty, like he's frightening a skittish cat, ignoring his stomach as it swoops with unsubstantiated fear. What the hell is going on with his friend?

"Christ, Johnny," Paul slaps a palm to his chest and heaves a breath, shaking his head slightly. "You scared the hell out of me."

"Sorry," John says again, stepping closer again with care. "I didn't mean to."

"I know just - good Lord," Paul laughs humorlessly, running an anxious hand through his hair. "I knew this was coming, I don't know why I'm so jumpy."

"Knew what was coming?" John cocks his head in confusion. "Me?"

"'course," Paul shrugs. "We have to talk about it, don't we?"

"Talk about what, exactly?" John ventures carefully. "I honestly don't know what's going on. All I know is you've been actively avoiding me for a week and I just want to know if… you know, if you're okay."

With a heavy sigh and a hint of a smile in John's direction that reminds him that his real teammate is still in there and hasn't been swallowed up by this awful-looking one, Paul looks away from him, a flash of fear crossing his features before they settle into something like surrender. "I'm sorry," he says to the counter, looking genuinely apologetic. "I didn't… I didn't know how to talk to you about this."

"About what?" John is starting to get anxious now. Nothing about this conversation or situation is sitting right with him.

"About… look, that's the thing, alright? There isn't anything specific to say." Paul looks agitated at his own difficulty with explaining this and sighs again, eyes finding John's for a moment long enough to convey how utterly lost he is. "I've been trying to sort out a way to tell you this without it sounding dire because I don't even know if it _is_ dire. It's just a… feeling. A bad feeling."

"About Victor?" John plows ahead, figuring it's best to rip the band-aid off. He's got a bad feeling about Victor, too. It's not anything new.

"I- yeah," Paul looks a bit relieved that John knows the topic of the conversation at least, before he drops his head again. "I'm sorry, John," Paul murmurs to his feet, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair again before glancing back up. "I… I don't even know what to say, which is why I haven't said anything. I'm just…sorry."

"It's fine," John replies slowly, feeling quite off balance in this conversation. "Just tell me what you know. Or what you _feel_ anyway."

"Okay," Paul huffs out a breath and shakes his head slightly, apparently psyching himself up for this conversation. "Okay."

One more deep breath and Paul says everything in a rush. "There is something not right about Victor, John. He's… off. Not even strange, just off. He's got this darkness about him, which I'm now kicking myself for not noticing before we moved in together but he… he's not a good guy. I thought he was, you know? I thought he was a nice enough bloke, definitely a fun guy at parties and he's clean and unobtrusive in my space which is really all I wanted in a roommate when I went searching for one."

Paul pauses, searching the ground for the rest of his thoughts and John blows out silent a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, knowing the worst is yet to come.

"But ever since that party at our house, when he… when he got Sherlock drunk…" Paul trails off again, shaking his head, eyes glazing over slightly at the memory. "He's become such a bloody _creep_ , Johnny. I swear, he wasn't like this before but now he's been, like… just _off_. I don't have a better word for it."

"Off how?" John all but demands, tempering his voice just enough to not give away the fact that he's metaphorically biting his nails with a deep-seated panic he senses about where this story is going.

"He talks about Sherlock," Paul says urgently, looking directly into John's eyes and begging him to understand how important this is. "Not anything bad, but he just talks about him a lot. Mentions they're going to study, off-handedly says he's going to see him in class, sometimes asks me if I've seen him around lately. Sometimes he asks about you, too. About you and then immediately says he's seeing Sherlock right after he asks. It's like he wants me to put two and two together, you know? Like he wants me to be telling you that he's seeing Sherlock."

Ignoring the silently boiling, raging lava pooling underneath his skin, John nods gently. "Okay," he says evenly, terrified of spooking Paul into not continuing but barely containing himself from reaching out and shaking the rest of the information out of his friend.

"And I… well, I heard something," Paul mutters shakily. "Something one of his friends said."

Everything seems to go deadly silent and still even as a uni party rages on in the other room. Senses going on high alert, John responds in an equally low tone. "What did you hear?"

Eyes widening slightly, Paul shifts his weight from foot to foot. "Well…" he says softly. "He had a couple buddies over the other night, apparently they'd all gone to secondary school together." Paul stalls again, biting his bottom lip harshly as his worried gaze find John's again. "I came home to find them sitting around the living room having some drinks and laughs and I went in and said hi and planned to leave it at that. But Victor… he, uh-… he, yet again, asked me if I'd seen you around. At practice or something. And I said no, because I hadn't and because it was starting to get on my nerves, him asking about you all the time. It's not like you guys are friends, you know?"

Paul pauses again and John laces his fingers behind his back to physically restrain himself from reaching out and throttling his friend to spit out the rest of the information quicker.

"And," Paul finally begins again and John releases another mute puff of air. "He said… well he said something about that I might be seeing more of you around, that you might be more available or something now because… and Christ, he _smirked_ up at me, like this creepy, evil little smirk and said he'd asked Sherlock to be his tutor for Chemistry."

Okay. Okay, tutoring, while not ideal, isn't the worst thing in the world-

"And…" Paul swallows hard, meeting John's eyes with something akin to panic and John's insides flip uncomfortably, tossing his heart into his throat and his stomach down to his toes, cold goose pimples racing their way up along his skin and making him shiver. "John, his friends… they all started fucking _laughing_. Like really laughing, clearly about some inside joke I wasn't in on and Victor looked so goddamn _smug_. Like he'd just won some prize, this _stupid_ shit-eating grin plastered on his face."

His heart and his stomach seem to switch places as his entire body seems to roll, squirming and twisting until he has the very real fear of being sick.

"And…" Paul continues and John chokes back his vomit, unsure if he wants to hear the rest. "One of his friends cheered something like 'Oh hell yes, is Trevor back in the game again? It's been ages!' and Victor just smiled almost viciously and looked at me and I just walked out, Johnny, I just walked away, I don't even know what it means, it could mean nothing at all, I don't even know I have nothing to go on, I have _nothing_ -"

"Alright, hey, relax," John reaches out and gives Paul's shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze even as his hand shakes in the process, his whole frame decidedly not taking his own advice as it screams in silent fury. "It's fine. Thank you for telling me."

"Honestly, I'm disappointed in the both of you."

Whipping around with a glare already angrily plastered to his face, John stares furiously into Irene Adler's cool, assessing eyes as she leans nonchalantly in the doorway, eyeing the moment between teammates with something like irritation.

"Who the hell asked you?" John spouts back, very much not in the mood for another one of Sherlock's new 'friends' right now, too busy calming his own friend and having vivid imaginings of murdering Victor Trevor rather violently before he can lay a sodding finger on John's absolutely perfect roommate.

A serious shiver of fresh rage rattles his short frame and John has to drop his hand from where it rests on Paul's shoulder to clench his fists to his sides and calm himself before he does something truly crazy, like storm out of this kitchen right now and make his way down the street to Victor and Paul's house.

The girl in the doorway rolls her eyes, pushing off the frame and sashaying over, looking perfectly annoyed. "Let me ask you this, _Johnny Boy_ ," Irene spits and for once the nickname doesn't sound playful and fun but nasty and disgusted. "Are you really this clueless?"

"Oi, who the fuck are you?" Paul seems to have gathered himself and is now beaming an equally furious glare at the new girl, color returning to his face a bit as it darkens in anger.

"I'm Sherlock's _friend_ ," Irene replies, emphasizing the word and pointedly eyeing both of them. "And apparently the only intelligent one he's got."

"Do you have a purpose for interrupting our conversation?" John demands.

"Yes," Irene nods with a pinched smile. "I'm here to correct it."

"Jesus, why does Sherlock have to have friends like this," John mumbles to himself, scrubbing a hand down his face.

"You'd do well to listen to me," Irene replies angrily. "In case you weren't aware, Sherlock is also important to _me_ and I don't want him getting hurt. And since you two don't seem smart enough to understand what's going on, I'm here to help. So we can sort this out and keep Sherlock safe."

"Safe?" John breathes. For some reason hearing someone else mention Sherlock's safety makes this entire thing very real and somehow even more worrisome.

"Are you _blind_?" Irene snaps. "Have you _met_ Victor Trevor?"

"Okay, it's not like he's some murderer or something," Paul cuts in, though his voice is a bit shaky like he isn't actually sure if his statement is true. "Do you think you're blowing this way out of proportion?"

"Am I?" Irene pops a challenging eyebrow in John's direction.

"Why are you looking at _me_?" John demands, even though she's right, he'd still prefer not to give this Irene character anything to go on.

"Because Sherlock's well-being is at stake here," she says simply. "And I _know_ you don't want him getting hurt."

He doesn't need this unknown girl's help keeping Sherlock safe. He can take care of Sherlock on his own, thank you very much. He returns her glare and says, "Of course I don't want him getting hurt, I don't want _anyone_ getting hurt."

Irene makes an appalled face like John is being completely ignorant about something abundantly clear and turns to Paul for support.

And to John's great irritation, Paul seems to agree. "Shit, I think she's right, Johnny. We need to be careful. I don't know what Victor's game is but he's got his sights set on Sherlock and I am _certain_ that's not good."

"Yeah but I don't think Sherlock is interested-" John tries to argue for his friend, feeling an uncomfortable swoop of guilt in talking about Sherlock like this behind his back, even as John continues to plot ways to protect him, it still bothers him. Like Sherlock is some helpless imbecile. Sherlock would hate this.

"Victor Trevor is a predator, John," Irene barks, snapping his attention back to her. "It doesn't matter if Sherlock is interested or not. Victor is dangerous. Not in the sense of cutting Sherlock up into pieces and tossing him in the back bay, but in the sense of using, abusing and losing. He fancies himself quite a man's man, playing games, spinning wheels and keeping himself entertained. Once he's got them right where he wants them, and he's not above using other, ahem, _means_ to get them there, he shags them and leaves them. No phone numbers, no forwarding addresses. He loves to break hearts, he _loves_ inexperienced virgins and Sherlock Holmes is his new target."

It sounds outrageous.

It sounds completely made up and over the top and insane.

And yet.

"How do you know all this?" John demands, though he already believes every word she's said, shock still holding his body stock still, the implications of her speech not yet hitting him.

"Victor is not unique, John," Irene rolls her eyes like this is so obvious. "There are hundreds of guys like him out there. But I can almost promise that Sherlock has never seen anyone like him before, at least not someone radiating their charm in his direction. I don't think he realizes what he's gotten into. It doesn't matter if Sherlock wants Victor or not. Victor will make sure he does." She levels her gaze, her voice deadly serious. "By any means necessary."

John swallows harshly, the shock wearing off, giving way to something cold and harsh and terrifying. "You mean…"

"I don't know," Irene sighs, looking away for the first time, her piercing green eyes lingering on a bottle of vodka on the countertop. "Honestly, I don't. But if Victor purposefully getting Sherlock wasted at a party is any indication of what his methods are, I'd say we're better off being overly cautious than not. Wouldn't you agree?"

A thin layer of ice has seemed to have frozen John's veins at Irene's words, a cool shiver running down his spine, not in fear, but in utter, blinding _rage_ , the very real threat of Victor fucking Trevor lingering over his relationship with Sherlock Holmes and every fiber of his being screaming for him to dive into action, to glue himself to Sherlock's side, to hold the genius boy to his chest and only let go to long enough to beat Victor to a bloody pulp while spewing vicious, violent threats about him ever coming near Sherlock Holmes again.

It physically aches to stay where he is and do nothing but the smarter side of his brain knows Sherlock is just in the next room, safe with Mike, enjoying his night and having no idea that there is some sick fuck out in the world with their sights set on him.

A cheer rings out from around the corner, Mike's voice cutting through their conversation with a bellowing, "Well done Sherlock!" and the rest of the party-goers holler in celebration. John glances quickly over his shoulder, realizing he'd better get back quick since he'd promised he'd see Sherlock's first victory of the night.

"I've got to get back," John says, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. "But what are we… what should we do?"

"Well Sherlock said that Paul, you live with him?"

"That's right," Paul nods.

"Alright, well you'll be our inside guy. Let us know if anything weird is going on. Anything out of the norm."

"Like a spy?" Paul's eyes widen with excitement and John laughs for the first time since this conversation started, grinning at his teammate. It's nice to not be on the outs with Paul anymore and it's nice to see Paul with some color back in his cheeks.

"Hey, whatever you need to think to get the job done," Irene shrugs. "I'll keep an eye on them in class, make sure Victor isn't making any moves."

"Why can't we just talk to Sherlock?" Paul interrupts. "Seems a lot of effort when we can just talk to the bloke."

And for once, Irene and John seem to be on the same page, exchanging a look that only those who know Sherlock Holmes well would understand. "Trust me," Irene says, more to John than Paul, "I've tried."

"I take it that didn't go well," John replies sympathetically.

"Not even a little bit," Irene grumbles with a huff.

"I got a similar story from Greg this afternoon," John nods. "Apparently Sherlock's older brother has tried to talk to him about Victor as well. Sherlock told him to shove it."

"Awesome," Paul snaps sarcastically. "So he's going to be a pain in the arse about us helping him?"

"Pretty much," Irene shrugs. She glances over her shoulder and out into the main room, eyeing the rest of the patrons at the party before turning back. "Look, Sherlock isn't going to watch out for himself. He doesn't realize what he's getting into with Victor. He needs us but he can't know what we're doing. Make sense?"

"Alright," Paul nods in agreement, giving John's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'll probably stay here with Mike tonight seeing as there is a plethora of alcohol around, but I'll get on watch first thing tomorrow."

"Good," John smiles sincerely at his friend. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'm sorry it took me so long to get around to being of some use."

"And that's my cue to exit," Irene mutters. "I have no interest in epic bro time with the rugby team."

Paul laughs and bats his eyelashes at John. "Yes, John, please make her leave so I can make eyes at you, bro."

"Sod off," John laughs, tugging his phone out of his pocket and handing it to Irene. "We'd better exchange numbers, yeah? Keep in touch about all this? Greg Lestrade, our team captain, wants to be in the loop, too. He dates Sherlock's older brother."

"The creepy one with the umbrella?" Irene's eyes widen as she takes the mobile and John laughs.

"Don't say that around Lestrade," Paul says seriously even as his lip quirks. "He'll kill you."

Irene snorts but doesn't respond as she taps out her information before handing the device back to John. "That's a good idea, actually, about the phones," she says thoughtfully. "Maybe we should get on a group text? Keep everyone updated?"

"Yes, the Keeping Sherlock Holmes Safe Task Force definitely needs a group text," John grins, opening a new chat on his phone and adding the four of them.

"I'm sorry, the what?" Irene blinks at him like he's just grown a second head.

Chuckling to himself, John shoots off a text to the group and says, "Something I thought of this morning. Don't worry about it."

Two mobiles ping at identical moments and both Irene and Paul pull theirs free to check the message.

 **John Watson:**  
Task Force commencing. I've got eyes on Sherlock Holmes now, over.

"'Over'?" Paul grins at his text message. "Like walkie talkies?"

John giggles and nods, pleased that his friend got the reference.

"Oh my god," Irene grumbles, shaking her head at her own phone before all three devices in the kitchen sound with different ringtones and John pulls his back out to check it.

 **Greg Lestrade:**  
Sweet. I've got eyes on his brother, does that count at all?

Snickering, Paul taps out a reply quickly.

 **Paul Dimmock:**  
No one wants to hear about your sex life you sick bastard.

 **Greg Lestrade:**  
We're at dinner you pervert.

 **Greg Lestrade:**  
By the way, who is the fourth person on this chat? I just have yours and Johnny's numbers?

 **John Watson:**  
That would be Sherlock's friend Irene Adler.  
  
**Irene Adler:**  
Hello. I've actually met your boyfriend once. Tell him hi.

"Tell him 'hi'?" John glances up from his phone. "Not 'tell him he's creepy'?"

Shaking her head with a soft laugh, Irene doesn't get the chance to respond as all three mobiles sound again.

 **Greg Lestrade:**  
Ah. Well, hello. Myc says hi back.

"Okay, everyone out," John shoos them both. "We can all read in separate locations so I don't lose my mind every time a text message comes in and every one of our mobiles dings."

"Fair enough," Paul nods, before fixing John with a steady glance. "He'll be alright, Johnny. We'll protect him."

"Yeah," Irene agrees. "He'll be safe with the four of us watching out for him."

"Thanks, guys," John offers a small smile even as worry prickles along the back of his neck. He shakes it off, ignoring the tug in his belly that they're basically making plans to spy on Victor, though that's nothing compared to the burning anger of the beast inside of him at the thought of Victor Trevor laying an unwanted hand on his roommate. "You're right. We'll keep him safe."

Another cheer sounds in the other room and John steps around his friends. "I'd better get back out there."

"Yeah, you'd better," Irene agrees, eyes sparkling knowingly. "Wouldn't want to miss your boy's epic victory, now would you?"

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In hindsight, John really should have known it wouldn't be quite that simple.

He should have known a brief conversation, several extra sets of watchful eyes and a group text message wouldn't magically make everything easy.

Especially since nothing with Sherlock Holmes is _ever_ easy.

Of course, that doesn't even begin to cross John Watson's mind while he tosses stupidly soppy looks at his roommate as he plucks his rugby shorts from a small remaining pile of laundry sprawled out across his bed, barely noticing the annoying task at hand when Sherlock Holmes is sitting only meters away staring contentedly at his laptop and plucking at a violin that once again has seemed to have appeared out of no where. John has seen the instrument a total of one time before this and hasn't laid eyes on it since until right now. He wonders idly if Sherlock even knows how to play.

But the thought is fleeting as John's brain zeroes back in on pretty shaggy curls and sharp cheekbones and ethereal light eyes. Who cares if Sherlock can play a violin he apparently owns when he's got such striking features that John has, on more occasion than one, considered running his fingers over, aching to touch that beautiful skin and soft locks of hair. Who cares about the odd objects Sherlock owns when Sherlock all on his own is utterly _fascinating_?

A blessedly quiet, hangover-free day has followed the night of the party, and John has taken the late afternoon hours to finish up a load of laundry before planning to lounge around for the remainder of the night, wanting to use this peaceful time to ogle his wonderful roommate who is still glowing from the night before. All concerns of Victor Trevor lay dormant while John has eyes on Sherlock, his group chat box staying entirely silent.

Sherlock is safe for now and John decides to revel in it. It's a rather glorious, worry-free day and John can't keep his eyes off the mad genius he lives with.

Sherlock's cheeks have stayed a light, precious pink since the night before, the affects of victory doing wonders for his mood as he grins and laughs with John about _laundry_ of all things, something that John is certain on any other day Sherlock would label 'pedestrian'. Cheeks aching from the pleasantness of it, John is sure later, when he's on his own again, that he'll realize just how much of himself he's giving away, relaxing into the softness of a happy Sherlock Holmes, staring like a besotted idiot every time a little giggle emits itself from the genius' mouth.

And Sherlock seems to have absolutely no idea how precious he is, not guarding himself today, not catching himself before saying something or laughing or grinning. He seems as content as John is, letting the conversation wash over him easily, not protecting himself like usual, no obvious walls up and on alert, no hoops to jump through.

And as John finishes folding his jersey and tossing it on top of the last neatly folded pile of laundry on his bed before pushing it all to the side and flopping down on his mattress, eliciting another giggle and fond headshake from the boy that lives with him, John can't help but feel an incredibly satisfying warmth spread out to his every limb, certain the feeling has made itself plain in the grin on his face but he simply cannot help it. Not when Sherlock catches the grin and returns it fully, pink cheeks darkening a shade, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners, light irises glittering in the soft afternoon light.

Sherlock Holmes is absolutely _stunning_ when he's relaxed.

It's been one of the most peaceful days John has had, especially after the upsetting conversation he'd had the night before, and just as night begins to fall, and John's mind has truly shut itself off to the outside world and all the horrors it holds, his calm and quiet day is all but obliterated.

John Watson should have fucking known better.

He watches as his roommate stands from his desk and grabs his book bag, muttering about where his Chemistry textbook has gone, ruffling papers and other odd items along his desk, making more noise than either of them has all day.

Blinking rapidly, attempting to catch up with the quick and purposeful movements of his roommate, John glances at the clock on his phone, eyeing the large 6:45pm staring back at him before looking back to Sherlock.

"What are you doing?" John asks sleepily from where he lays supine on his bed, stretched out amongst his folded laundry that he's been too lazy to put away, brain slowly coming back online, attempting to put itself on alert.

"I've got a tutoring session," Sherlock mutters, looking about as enthused about it as John is about him leaving their room. "I'm meeting Victor at his house."

"Oh, you're… wait, what?" John's body finally wakes itself and he sits up, something like panic racing down his spine. Fucking _tutoring_? Tonight? _Already_? No. No no _no_ , Sherlock absolutely _cannot_ go waltzing into the lion's den right now. Not when John has no plan in place. Not when John isn't prepared. Not when John is utterly _useless_. "I… _now_?"

"Yeah," Sherlock tosses him an amused look as John scurries off his bed in his haste to do something, _anything_ to keep Sherlock here and out of the clutches of his Chemistry partner. "We made plans last week."

"Oh," John says stupidly, already furious that he didn't know this bit of information, having no idea that this tutoring deal was starting _tonight_ of all fucking nights, feeling extremely unprepared, mind already racing for some sort of excuse to make this stop, to keep Sherlock with him, to keep Sherlock _safe_. "Well, um wh-why don't you uh- hang tight for a second, yeah? Let me call Paul and see if he's around." John lunges for his mobile on his desk, swiping it open and scrolling through his contacts before tapping Paul's name quickly.

"What?" Sherlock asks, shoving a stack of papers and a binder into his bag. "Why do I need to wait for you to call Paul?"

"Well, I was thinking, um," John tries to articulate as the phone rings continuously in his ear, his hand twitching in anticipation at his side, "that I could uh, go with you. You know, catch up with Paul while you work with Victor."

"Why?" Sherlock asks again as he tugs on his sweatshirt, clearly almost ready to go and making John's heart leap into his throat in sheer panic. "You just saw him last night."

"Yeah, I know," John snaps, clicking the End Call button as Paul's voicemail comes on and redials. "But I… I think it would be uh, fun to hang, just the four of us, you know?"

"I'll be teaching Victor Chemistry, John," Sherlock replies dubiously as he slings his bag onto his shoulder. "I can promise you, it won't be fun."

"Yeah, yeah, but like… god _damnit_ ," John mutters, the phone yet again going to voicemail. "Fucking hell."

"What?" Sherlock demands, finally pausing in his preparations to depart and staring John down. "What is the issue here?"

"Paul isn't at home," John sighs, fear prickling up the back of his neck and slamming into the base of his skull, spreading along his shoulders and out to his fingers, a bead of sweat popping free from his brow. "Jesus, where the fuck is he?"

Silence fills the room though John barely notices Sherlock staring him down as John taps out an urgent text message in the group chat box he'd created last night, running through his mind to figure out where Paul could possibly be because there is no way in _hell_ Sherlock is going to-

"Oh you've got to be _kidding_ me."

Snapped free from his inner-turmoil, John looks up to find Sherlock Holmes glowering at him, eyes narrowed and face red as a cherry, though not in the sweet, embarrassed way John loves but an angry, furious red that John has never seen on the genius' face before, making his thumbs falter in shock. "Sherlock-" he tries but the boy cuts him off.

"Have you been talking to Mycroft?"

Frowning, John takes a step back from his clearly furious roommate. "I-what? No." Mycroft? Where the hell did that come from?

"Ah. Irene, then," Sherlock nods in what can only be described as disgust. "Should have guessed. That's why she wanted to meet you so badly yesterday."

"Sherlock, listen-"

" _That's_ what you were doing last night," Sherlock bites out, eyes widening with realization before narrowing again, even more rage filling them if that were possible. "You and Irene were… what? Plotting? Conspiring? Making sure poor, stupid little Sherlock didn't get himself into any trouble?"

" _No_ , Sherlock that is _not_ -"

"You really think I'm so pathetic that you-"

"No! I just want you to be careful-"

" _Careful_?!"

"I don't want you to get hurt-"

"Oh that's bloody rich!" Sherlock shouts, spinning on his heel and hauling toward the door. " _You_ don't want _me_ getting _hurt_? And what _exactly_ do you think it is that you were doing with Irene last night?"

The words hang in the air, revealing far more than John is sure Sherlock meant to, but the curly-haired boy doesn't seem to notice as he turns back around to shoot another furious glare at John, pain so evident in his eyes it physically hurts John not to go to him, to apologize profusely, to make him understand.

"You don't get it, obviously," Sherlock all but mutters though his words are razor sharp, a cool mask taking over his features, just barely hiding the hurt. "How could you? You're an idiot, after all."

And John's heart drops to his stomach, the pain of what was once a teasing endearment now a spitting, cutting remark and everything aches inside him. "Sherlock," he practically whispers, "I just don't want anything happening to you. Victor… h-he's bad news, mate, I swear-"

"And how exactly do you know that?" Sherlock demands. "Some rumor you heard? From _Irene_? Do you have _facts_ , John? Do you have any proof whatsoever that Victor is, how did you put it, _bad news_?" He sneers the last two words at the blond boy like it's the most absurd thing he's ever heard. "You all are such imbeciles, believing petty gossip like this. And for what reason? You don't even know him."

"Sherlock, please, just listen," John begs, chest tightening as Sherlock's words get harsher and harsher. "I just don't think you know him well enough to really know what he's capable of. He got you very drunk at a party and-"

"Oh for god _sake_!" Sherlock bellows and John takes a hasty step back. "Are you _really_ bringing that up? You really think I am so _stupid_ as to allow someone to 'get my drunk'? Am I really that helpless that I simply let another person have that much control over me?"

"It's not about control, Sherlock, it's about peer pressure and-"

"Ah, so you are taking pages out of Irene Adler's playbook," Sherlock glowers. "Good to know you don't have a single thought in that head of yours that is actually all your own. I, however, am not quite so easily swayed. And in case you forgot, I am bloody brilliant. I don't need you lot 'taking care' of me."

 _He's simply angry_ , John tries to convince himself. _He's spouting off because he's hurt. He doesn't mean it. He can't mean it._

Taking a deep, steadying breath, even as Sherlock Holmes glares daggers into him, John levels his gaze. "I know you think Victor is your friend," he says calmly, attempting to stay collected, "and it's hard to see bad things in friends-"

"He's my Chemistry partner and I'm tutoring him," Sherlock spits dangerously, face darkening with anger, freezing John in place with the ferocity of his words. "I'm incapable of making friends." Ice blue eyes trail down John's body pointedly, hurt almost entirely masked by the cold, cutting glare of disappointment mixed with fury, Sherlock's beautifully sharp features becoming something almost unrecognizable as John watches him all but shudder back into himself, closing off any entrance John had hoped he had. "Obviously."

His still gorgeous eyes linger on John's for a long, meaningful moment, something deeply profound swimming within them and John is just about to go to him, to pull him into his arms, to apologize over and over again, to hug him close and never ever let him go.

And just as he's about to give into the impulse, Sherlock's spine snaps straight, jutting his chin out, cool mask falling back over his features, closing himself off entirely to any advance John may have been considering making. Sherlock practically spits, "You'd do well to remember that, John. I don't have _friends_."

Sherlock shakes his head almost sadly before finally looking away. "Not even one."

And with that parting shot, Sherlock yanks open the door and bolts without a look back, leaving John too stunned to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ALREADY SORRY BUT THANK YOU FOR READING ANYWAY! Be on the lookout for Chapter 11 in the next two weeks! 
> 
> We're having a constant lovefest on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come join in!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There is discussions of drugging someone in this chapter but no one actually gets drugged. There are also mentions of rape in this chapter but no one actually gets raped. Please be advised if this is a trigger for you! 
> 
> Also: This chapter ALSO ends in a cliffhanger but it's a much NICER cliffhanger than the last! Or I mean... I think so?
> 
> _Once again, a very very special thanks to ishaveforsherl, you are my fic advisor of epic proportions THANK YOU for everything you do for me! Also special thank you to awkwardtiming for giving me sound advice and grammar lessons!_  

**John Watson:**   
RED FUCKING ALERT, SHERLOCK IS ON HIS WAY TO VICTOR'S RIGHT THE FUCK NOW AND WHERE THE FUCK IS PAUL?

**Greg Lestrade:**   
What? Are you serious?

**Greg Lestrade:**   
Did you try calling him?

**John Watson:**   
He's not answering.

**Irene Adler:**   
He said he was staying the night with Mike last night, didn't he?

**John Watson:**   
Yeah, but it's 7pm. You think he's still there?

**Irene Adler:**   
I don't know but it's worth a call to Mike, don't you think?

**John Watson:**   
Just called. It went straight to voicemail. I'm going over to Mike's.

**Greg Lestrade:**   
Shouldn't we just go to Paul's? Stop Sherlock from going in?

**John Watson:**   
Sherlock is furious with me right now. If I or any of you run him down and try to stop him he'll never speak to me again.

**Irene Adler:**   
I hate how accurate this is.

**Greg Lestrade:**   
Fucking hell. Sometimes I hate that kid's brain.

**Irene Adler:**   
Agreed. We all warned him and still here he is going see Victor alone.

**John Watson:**   
Our only shot is Paul. At least it won't look suspicious if Paul is at his own house and hopefully Victor won't try anything with his roommate around.

**Greg Lestrade:**   
Fine. I'm coming with you though. I'll meet you at Mike's.

**John Watson:**   
Alright, leaving now.

**Irene Adler:**   
Let me know if you need me to do anything.

**John Watson:**   
Thanks Irene.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He knew better, didn't he?

He fucking well _knew better_.

From day one, he'd had the right idea; stay away, steer clear, don't get involved, don't get attached, keep to himself, keep away from the blond boy living in his room, _stay alone_. Alone _protects_ him.

Christ, he _knew better_.

And yet now here he is marching through campus, steam practically coming out of his ears as fury storms within him, thunderous steps forcing anyone in his way to step aside, raging anger rolling off his slender frame in waves as he silently berates himself for his stupidity, the choice to trust John Watson having been one of the worst of his life because he was fucking _smarter than that_.

Which is even more infuriating because he hadn't actively decided to trust John Watson. He hadn't made a conscious decision, hadn't purposefully thought that this was a good idea, hadn't consciously dropped his heart in John's hands and _trusted him with it_.

It had just happened.

It simply _is_.

And that makes Sherlock even _angrier_.

Angrier at the situation, angrier at the sodding world, angrier at John fucking Watson for weaseling his way into Sherlock's bloody _life_ without goddamn _permission_ to do so. It's not right. Sherlock Holmes was doing just fine before that blue-eyed boy arrived at his front door and fucked everything up.

And really, it's the rugby player's fault. Swindling Sherlock into getting comfortable, putting him at ease with his stupid dazzling smile and his fucking gorgeous laugh and his all-too-cozy company. John Watson with his winks and his fond headshakes and his shoulder bumps. John Watson with his perfect goddamn friends and wonderful inclusive personality, always wanting Sherlock to tag along, Sherlock to meet his team, Sherlock to drink beer and laugh and be a part of something.

Stupid fucking _John Watson_.

That _stupid_ boy had somehow insinuated himself into every facet of Sherlock's life without any consent from the genius, making him think things that weren't real, making him see things that didn't exist, making his whole world different for once in his miserable eighteen years of life and wasn't that just-

No.

No, you know what?

_No_.

This isn't about him. This isn't about Sherlock.

This is about _John_.

And _Irene_.

And sodding _Mycroft_.

All of them just encroaching on Sherlock's existence when he didn't ask them for _any of it_ , trying to contain him, trying to _change_ him, trying to _run his entire life_. This is _exactly_ why Sherlock has actively chosen to be alone since he was a boy. This is _exactly_ why being alone protects him.

And where had he steered off that perfectly laid path he'd set for himself so long ago? When had nightly dinners and frequent touches and university parties of all things come before that?

When had being with John Watson become more important than being alone?

Sherlock is certain right now if he were capable he would be breathing fire as he exhales a very harsh breath into the cold London air, ignoring the plume of fog in front of his face and continues to stomp down the footpath, the blood vessels in his neck ready to pop with how hard he's straining, hands shaking slightly, entire body trembling as he vibrates with pure _rage_.

And just who in the bloody fuck did John Watson think he is? Some savior? Some goddamn _hero_ swooping in to save his too-smart-for-his-own-good roommate from… from _what_ exactly? A friend? A kind bloke? A boy who has been nothing but lovely to the poor idiot that is Sherlock Holmes? A boy who is nothing but a buffer to keep Sherlock's world only mildly harmed when John eventually leaves him? A boy who has been keeping Sherlock sane? Keeping his relationship with John intact? Keeping Sherlock from doing anything _reckless_ with the rugby player that lives in his dorm room?

There is a _purpose_ for Victor. Victor is useful. If John weren't so goddamn ignorant, too busy "protecting Sherlock" he would see it plainly. Victor is nothing more than an idiot but a useful idiot and now apparently the only idiot in Sherlock's life.

That thought alone freezes Sherlock's fury long enough for a swoop of sheer terror to course through his body, the idea of Victor Trevor being his only friend making his insides churn unpleasantly.

He shakes his head violently and returns to his thunderous thoughts, insides roiling at all memories that are blond rugby players and brilliant smiles and stupid sad blue eyes that blink up at Sherlock in deep concern, worry creasing the sides of his face.

And Sherlock _hates_ him for him.

Sherlock Holmes can bloody well take care of himself, thank you very much. He doesn't need protection or coddling or… or _anything_. He is brilliant all on his own. He doesn't need anyone looking out for him. He doesn't need _anyone_.

Not even John Watson.

John Watson who is not perfect like he made Sherlock think he was. John Watson who is not God's gift to earth like he made Sherlock think he was. John Watson who is not special like he _fucking made Sherlock think he was_.

And John most definitely does not think _Sherlock_ is special.

Like John Watson made him think he was.

And the curly-haired boy hates him a little bit for that. He hates that John hid his true feelings, hid exactly what he thinks of Sherlock. Hates that John pitied him and thought him helpless this entire time while Sherlock was falling unfathomably hard, letting his heart rule every single one of his decisions for a boy he thought saw him like nobody else.

Turns out, Sherlock just hadn't met those people yet. Those people who saw him as pitiful. As helpless.

Pathetic.

Sad.

Lonely.

_Ugh_.

In his experience, people go one way or the other with Sherlock Holmes. They're either afraid of him and ignore him or hate him and beat him. Those are the only two options he's ever really considered, apart from Mycroft's pitying older brother routine, always watching over Sherlock's shoulder, ever concerned for his idiotic sibling, convinced the genius was hopeless, entirely incapable of having social interactions on his own or any kind of connections with regular people or taking care of himself, always ready and waiting to save Sherlock from whatever he'd gotten himself into.

And now the curly-haired boy realizes. Now he can see ever so clearly.

There are not two options on how one treats Sherlock Holmes.

There are three.

And, as it turns out, and as much as it would infuriate him to know this, Mycroft Holmes is not unique. He's not the most original in the way he deals with Sherlock, he's not the cleverest out of the bunch. In fact, he'd simply been the only one who chose option three in Sherlock's life before Holmes the younger arrived at university.

Now, there are several.

Now, there is Irene and Mike and Greg and Paul and _John_.

And with a crushing, sickening twist in his abdomen, Sherlock realizes it all at once, crumbling his entire uni career to date into one simple factor, one tiny little truth that he didn't bloody see because he can't see past the bloody hearts in his eyes whenever he's looking at or thinking of or bloody fantasizing about John fucking Watson.

That's what this has all been about these past few months. That's what their entire relationship and relationships stemming from it are about.

That rugby player, the one that sleeps meters from him every night and grins at him every morning and brings home dinner every evening and laughs with him every afternoon is not the perfect, beautiful, precious idiot Sherlock has always thought of him as. He is not the exception to every silent rule that has ever been made about Sherlock Holmes.

John is not different.

John is simply option three; being kind to Sherlock out of pity.

Punch him, ignore him, or feel sorry for him, those are the rules of Holmes the younger and John Watson chose door number three.

And Sherlock finds himself wishing John had just gone ahead and socked him right in the jaw that first day he'd laid eyes on him standing in the doorway of their room. It would have been preferable, just shatter the illusion day one than experience the devastating realization that none of it was real at all, that there was no true friendship, no compatibility, no endless possibilities like Sherlock had foolishly let himself believe.

Instead, it ends like this.

His furious steps falter slightly, entire frame seeming to waver as he realizes exactly what that means to his current worldview, what it'll mean to the routine and the plans and the bloody _life_ he's created around that rugby player. Even with the knowledge of the falsity of their entire relationship, it still crushes something unseen in the genius boy's chest, squeezing and threatening to suffocate him right here on the concrete, attempting to swallow him up into his miserable new life without a beautiful blond boy by his side…

Before anger wins out and he's back at it, tearing down the sidewalk and rounding the corner, barreling down the now familiar rows of university houses, barely seeing much of anything, body on autopilot as his thoughts spin and spin, practically smothering him with the weight and implications and completely intolerable and upsetting thought that John Watson may no longer be in his life, may no longer be his friend, his main friend, his _best_ friend is just… it… it's just…

Racing up the familiar steps with hardly a second thought, Sherlock is pounding on the door with his fist, ignoring the tingling on the side of his hand warning him that he may be taking out his anger on the wood, and steps back, hardly having a moment to compose himself before the door is flung open.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**John Watson:**   
ETA?

**Greg Lestrade:**   
Rounding the corner now.

**John Watson:**   
Did you tell Mycroft about this?

**Greg Lestrade:**   
He's out of town this weekend for work and currently out of reach, though I have a special number if needed. He'd have burned England to the ground by now just to get to Sherlock if he knew.

**John Watson:**   
I'm starting to think that's not a bad option.

**Greg Lestrade:**   
Let's find Paul before we resort to that.

**Irene Adler:**   
Still here if you need me.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Hey I- whoa, are you okay?"

"What?" Sherlock snaps a bit too harshly, breath coming out sharply through his nose as he narrows in on his Chemistry partner looming in the doorway. The source of his problem. The idiot who may have just ruined the most important friendship he's ever had. The idiot who is now the _only_ idiot in his life.

Better make the best of it.

"Why would you ask me that?"

Or not.

Victor's eyes immediately widen with concern, sweeping all over the curly-haired boy's frame, brows creasing worriedly as he beckons Sherlock into the house. "You look like… did you run here?"

Why? _Why_ must Victor be dumber than usual today of all days? Why must he test every _ounce_ of patience Sherlock as ever possessed? Repressing the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in irritation, deciding since this may now be his only male friend in the world, Sherlock carefully works to smooth his features into something of a blank mask as he follows Victor inside, deciding that he'd better put in an effort and play nice. Or neutral. Whichever he can manage. "No, Victor, I didn't run here."

"Well you're all… red," Victor says with a frown, eyes following something that appears to be dripping down Sherlock's temple which, when he swipes his fingers along it, turns out to be sweat. He realizes he must look like a disheveled mess but it's not like he can go home and change and get himself together again. He doesn't even know if he's allowed to go home. Not when John is-

No. Not thinking about John Watson right now. Absolutely _not_.

"Yes, well," Sherlock sighs immediately, deciding he'd rather not talk to anyone about what just happened, especially not Victor Trevor. He looks up into his friend's concerned eyes and attempts to soften slightly, trying to appreciate the support and not be incredibly annoyed by it, blood still bubbling but attempting to cool from a boiling to at least a low simmer. "It's just been a really shitty day."

"I can see that," Victor blinks, waving him in to the sitting room. "Come on. Come sit down and take a breather."

"Thanks." Sherlock attempts to offer a grateful smile but he's not sure how it comes off, the furious fog of rage finally clearing from his vision as he has something else to focus on besides the imminent ending of his friendship with John. He follows Victor in, trying not to think about the last time he was here, drunk as all hell and embarrassing himself.

The night John had practically carried him home.

The night John had put him into bed with all the care in the world.

The night he'd let his guard down a bit too much with John Watson.

Shaking that thought off – and all thoughts of John Watson for that matter – Sherlock shuffles into the main room, noticing the sofa has been pulled back out from where it had been stuffed up against the wall for beer pong the last time he'd been here. It looks so different and yet exactly the same, making his head feel a bit light with fuzzy memories of that night, the night he'd been a champion, the night he'd had a little group to call his own. The night big blue eyes had glittered up at him with, at the time Sherlock had misinterpreted as affection.

That night he'd gotten himself too drunk to walk.

That night John had gotten him home and put him to bed safe and sound.

That night John Watson had taken care of him out of pity.

Not because they were friends. Not because they were roommates. But because he felt sorry for the stupid drunk genius boy who was dumb enough to get wasted at a party when he'd hardly ever had alcohol before.

Something slithers sickly in his belly at the realization, at the thought that every interaction they've ever had was based on a lie. That John never actually wanted to be near Sherlock of his own free will. That John had some fucking healer's complex, always needing to fix things, needing to be someone's caretaker, needing to feed and include and protect Sherlock because he _felt sorry_ for him.

No. Sherlock doesn't need anyone's sympathy. Sherlock doesn't need fixing. Sherlock is _fine_.

Besides, he doesn't need to be friends with anyone based on a sham. He'd rather have friendships with lesser people like Victor who are actually truly his friend for _him_. Not because they pity him.

Even if no one comes close to being as perfect as John was.

But then again, John was never perfect, now was he? That was all a lie.

Dropping his bag on the floor beside him and plopping down onto the cushions, the genius takes a deep steadying breath in an attempt to calm his angrily pounding heart, letting it out through his nose, hoping to center himself and ignore the darkly swirling cloud twisting his thoughts round and round. He's no longer alone, and he can't be stuck in his head while he's trying to tutor for godsake. He exhales once more and runs a hand through his hair, before attempting to plaster on some sort of pleasant look and turns his face up to his Chemistry partner.

"You sure you're okay?" Victor is eyeing him carefully from where he stands looming over the genius, hands clasped in front of him.

"Yeah," Sherlock nods quickly, wishing Victor would stop asking already and move on to a new topic. He reaches for his book in his bag and feels the couch shift beneath him as another body settles onto it and Sherlock's shoulders relax, hoping maybe the worried friend game is over and they can get to work. "Alright, so which chapter did you want to work on?"

He manages to wrestle his textbook free and turns to face the boy beside him, fingers already tracing the pages, prepped and ready to turn to whichever part necessary, head finally swimming out of the depths of fury and churning its way toward Chemistry as Sherlock's crystal blue eyes meet green.

And startles slightly to find those green eyes closer than he'd expected.

Very close.

A little _too_ close.

_Uncomfortably_ close.

_Stop it_ , Sherlock berates himself with an internal roll of his eyes. _He's not_ too _close, he's just sitting there. Stop it now. Don't let John get in your head. Stop thinking about John. STOP._

"What happened?" Victor asks, brilliant emerald eyes practically glittering up at Sherlock as he tosses an arm over the back of the couch behind the curly-haired boy's shoulders, anxiously blinking with a furrowed brow, a shy by reassuring smile pressing his lips together, looking the perfect picture of a concerned friend.

Sherlock sighs, fervently ignoring the irritating prickle of his skin at the repetition of this conversation. "Nothing," he mutters, shaking his head, having no plans to tell Victor the truth. "Really it's nothing." He shifts slightly away from those eyes practically piercing his own, feeling a bit closed in and focuses his gaze down at his lap, flipping the textbook open to an unknown page, hoping the sight of him deep into reading chemical equations will force Victor to back off.

Not that he's doing anything wrong. Really, Victor is just trying to be a good friend. It's Sherlock with the attitude problem. Victor is fine.

It's nothing. It's fine. It's not _that_ -

Victor shifts as well, following Sherlock's short movement across the couch, making the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck raise sharply. "Come on," Victor says, fingers brushing gently over the curly-haired boy's shoulder. "You can talk to me."

A ripple of wrath whips its way down his spine, starting at the point where Victor had touched him and racing through his system at lightning speed, beads of sweat popping at his brow with the effort not to turn and wring Victor's scrawny neck to _leave him the fuck alone_ and stop bloody _pushing it_.

"Uh-" Sherlock clears his throat and moves away again, reaching forward and settling his body further down the sofa as he rocks back with his bag in hand, shoving his hand down the flap to appear to be rummaging for something, attempting to distract himself from severely snapping. "Seriously, nothing is wrong. Shall we-"

"Sherlock," Victor murmurs and Sherlock turns to find him even closer now, hand settling fully on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing it gently before stroking over his collarbone with a reassuring thumb, clearly having no idea he's currently attempting to settle an extremely agitated genius. "You know you can always talk to me, right? About anything."

Biting his tongue so sharply he swears he tastes blood, Sherlock keeps his mouth firmly shut as the very real fear of a guffaw is threatening to make its way out of it.

Never. Ever. _Ever_.

Not in a thousand years will Sherlock ever tell Victor what happened today. Not ever.

Nor will he tell him anything else about his life. _Never_.

Geniuses do not trust morons with their secrets.

If it's one thing Sherlock has learned today, it's that. He was _this close_ to trusting the boy living in his dorm room and look how well that turned out?

"Oh, th-that's okay," Sherlock tries to subtly shrug off Victor's hand without being blatantly rude, the attempt at comfort having the opposite affect. "Thanks, though."

Victor blinks for a long moment before his features soften again into kindness and reassurance. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure," Sherlock mutters. Still attempting to wriggle free of the hand wrapped around his shoulder, Christ he does _not_ want to be touched right now, Sherlock shoves his bag off his lap with a slip of his finger and is grateful as the thing falls to the floor with a _thunk_. "Whoops," he murmurs and swoops down to grab the contents, finally freeing himself from unwanted fingers on his person.

But not before he sees something ugly flash through green eyes, there and gone in a blink, so quick Sherlock could have easily imagined it, something Victor clearly didn't wish him to see as the perfectly perfected worry seeps back into his features with a single twist of his face. Something so brief and yet so telling it clicks something into place along a single path in Sherlock's giant brain and the genius freezes.

And suddenly, another voice is filling his head, an all-too-familiar voice speaking words he'd only heard a short time ago, six words ringing in his ears like a bomb has just gone off.

_He's bad news mate, I swear._

Sherlock just catches himself from answering John Watson's voice in his head out loud, pressing his lips together and looking away to shuffle in his bag once more, the thought of looking into Victor's eyes again unsettling him. "So, which chapter were you struggling with?" he attempts to ask casually, blowing right past this uncomfortable moment.

The change of topic seems to throw his Chemistry partner for a loop, the moment of silence stretching out into almost awkward territory before the sofa shifts and the weight dragging down the cushion Sherlock is perched on is suddenly gone. Still, he can't bring himself to look up.

"Oh yeah, hold on a second though," Victor says, Sherlock watching his feet walk away out of the corner of his eye. "I'm going to grab something to drink, do you want anything?"

"No thanks," Sherlock replies with a sag of relief, hoping this means they can move on without any lingering discomfort.

Apparently, John Watson and his uniquely lilted voice have other plans.

_I just want you to be careful_.

"Shut up, John," Sherlock growls under his breath softly enough it only carries to his own ears before yanking his notebook free from the confines of his book bag and tearing it open, ignoring how much the voice is rattling his cage and silently berating himself for thinking even for a moment that John was right.

Which he isn't.

Obviously.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**John Watson:**   
Paul isn't here. Mike doesn't know where he is.

**Irene Adler:**   
Fucking hell.

**Greg Lestrade:**   
Fucking hell is right.

**John Watson:**   
What the fuck are we going to do?

**Irene Adler:**   
Does Paul have certain places he frequents? We can try to track him down.

**Greg Lestrade:**   
No. Paul doesn't do anything besides rugby and school.

**Irene Adler:**   
Shit.

**John Watson:**   
Sod it, I'm going to kick down the fucking door if Paul doesn't answer his goddamn phone.

**Greg Lestrade:**   
I second that.

**John Watson:**   
I'm giving it five more minutes and then I'm going over there.

**Greg Lestrade:**   
Ten more minutes and I'm calling Mycroft.

**Irene Adler:**   
Keep me updated.

**Greg Lestrade:**   
We will.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Here we are, then."

A glass filled with clear liquid, jingling slightly from the ice swirling within it, dripping with condensation is thrust into his view from where he's staring down at his notebook and Sherlock glances up with a frown. "Oh. I said I didn't want anything."

"Come on," Victor says with an encouraging smile and a small almost shy shrug. Like he's somehow done something he knew Sherlock would secretly like even if he'd originally said no. "It'll take the edge off."

"I'm not on edge," Sherlock argues sharply, still not taking the glass, watching as several droplets of the unwanted liquid fall on to the pages in front him.

Must Victor be so goddamn _obnoxious_ today? Must he keep pushing at every turn, keep badgering the genius into doing things he doesn't want to do? Can't he just shut up and sit down and get this godforsaken lesson over with so Sherlock can leave? Can't he stop being overly considerate and caring and nice and just _leave it alone_?

"You are a bit," Victor grins wider, clearly missing the hint of frustration in Sherlock's tone. "Come on. You gotta relax if you want to be at your best for teaching Chemistry, yeah?"

"No, really, I-" Sherlock goes to deny again, the volume of his voice on the way to rising with sheer irritation before the wheels in his head start turning once more, catching up with the conversation and halting the words from escaping his mouth, a fine rush of panic shimmying down his spine, all feelings of testiness slowly waning away as realization sweeps in and replaces it.

_The edge off_.

_Relax_.

"Is that vodka?" Sherlock is suddenly, wildly, on alert, the glass looking more ominous now that he believes it's not filled with harmless water, insides lurching with the memory of the last time he had alcohol in him, the drink in front him not looking one bit enticing.

_He got you very drunk at a party_ , John Watson's voice supplies helpfully and Sherlock bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting at the voice in his head to _shut up_ even as a prick of understanding stabs the base of his skull.

"Come on," Victor says again with a small huff of laughter like this is all in good fun, like Sherlock is being absurd for denying the drink, even as Victor avoids answering the question. He shakes the glass in his hand, the ice clattering around with little _tink tink tink_ s, and his green eyes flash again, something cold and bitter crossing his features for a split, harsh second, but then he's on yet again, quirking his mouth up at the corner and blinking sparkling emerald rubies down at Sherlock.

_I know you think he's your friend and it's hard to see bad things in friends._

"I'm good," Sherlock says a bit firmer than he'd meant, shifting away a bit on the couch until he bumps the armrest and glances up to meet his Chemistry partner's features with a solid refusing glare, expecting a bit of deflation or at least another half-hearted attempt to force him to take the beverage.

Instead what the curly-haired genius finds is something entirely different.

Something completely out of place on that face he thought he knew. Something Sherlock has not noticed until this very minute and somehow it no longer matters what Mycroft said or what Irene said or what John said, because Sherlock can see it now clear as day. Sherlock can see it all.

Sherlock _knows_.

And the comprehension of the truth threatens to tear his fragile world right down to the ground in one go as understanding dawns on him like a freezing London morning, shocking him right into place and leaving him there.

Oh Christ.

What has he missed?

What has he ignored?

What has he _done_?

Victor is holding his gaze hard, green eyes razor sharp with something closer to rage than frustration, lips pressed into a thin, colorless line, fingers going white around the damp cup in his hand. And suddenly he's no longer the idiot boy in Sherlock's class that can't learn Chemistry, no longer shyly asking for Sherlock's help, no longer looking eternally grateful when Sherlock agreed. Suddenly he's no longer the kind, friendly bloke Sherlock had run into at a party looking spiffed up and thrilled to see his friend. Suddenly he's not someone Sherlock has any interest in knowing.

Suddenly, Victor Trevor is someone else entirely.

"Take the drink, Sherlock."

The tone is so cool the genius almost shivers, watching as emerald eyes go frosty, chilling everything they glance at to the bone in an instant.

And just like that, something snaps loudly into place in Sherlock's head, instantly putting him on high alert, deductions suddenly flying rapidly through his mind, whipping his thoughts this way and that as he takes in everything there is to know about this boy in front of him. This _new_ boy. The boy he'd missed _entirely_.

It is _infuriating_ how obvious it is now.

Sherlock will berate himself later for not seeing it sooner but for now his thoughts race with all the new data he's acquiring, gaze flicking over the perfectly coiffed bloke in front of him, looking very similar to the night of the party, dressed in a freshly ironed button-down and slim-fitting jeans, hair frozen perfectly in place by some sort of expensive hair product.

This is not the look of a freshly showered café barista who got off a shift twenty minutes ago. This is not the look of an exhausted employee just off from their first day.

Victor has had time to prepare. Victor has been _waiting_ for this.

And Victor definitely doesn't work at a café.

So why-

Ah.

Of course.

7pm.

Late enough that a drink wouldn't be questioned, but not too late that the evening would be cut short. And they are… yes, they are alone. Paul definitely doesn't seem to be home.

And Victor _definitely_ doesn't seem to be interested in Chemistry lessons.

_I don't think you know him well enough to know what he's capable of._

Christ, it's so bloody obvious now, Sherlock hates himself a little bit for not realizing it sooner, but more than anything he hates himself for not believing John.

Oh god.

_John_.

"No," he says finally, after a long minute of silence, crossing his arms over his chest with a glare. "I really won't be having that drink."

Something twitches out of the corner of Sherlock's eye but he misses it, unsure if it was a limb or an item or something else lurking around the house, but he doesn't miss the setting of Victor's jaw as the bloke grinds his molars together and thrusts the drink in his direction again.

"Take it," Victor murmurs softly but the words are piercing in Sherlock's ears, the bite not lost in the volume and something like an adrenaline spike zings through his veins.

It's a bit dangerous, facing off with an angry bloke like this but Sherlock has never been one to back down from a fight and he's not about to start now. He may be a bit rusty, all those months with precious John Watson softening him up but his brain falls back into a familiar mindset easily, all the years of abuse not escaping him for long. He straightens his spine and glares right back, cocking his head and stupidly daring Victor Trevor to do something.

It's senseless, a pride thing really but he doubts Victor will actually throw a punch although if he did Sherlock has already calculated his exit strategy if things get out of hand.

Which he doesn't think they will.

Victor, with all his hair product and designer labels and bravado doesn't come off as much of a fighter. He seems more the neat and tidy type. Keep everything clean. No need for physical attacks. He's an actor, not a basher. He doesn't use his fists to get what he wants. He wouldn't have planned this entire evening out if he'd thought manhandling Sherlock into wherever he wanted him to be would have sufficed.

And if Sherlock is correct, it will only be proven impossibly accurate considering Victor is attempting to get him loose and legless, to lower his faculties and get him agreeing to things he normally wouldn't.

Like drinking a glass of vodka of all things.

"No," Sherlock replies again, sitting back easily on the sofa, curiosity getting the better of him, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly and jutting out his chin, wondering how long he'll have to wait until the proof is in the pudding.

He doesn't have to wait long.

Another flicker of something catches his eye and Sherlock follows it to the glass in Victor's hand, just catching the tail end of a tiny white ball of something sizzling into a carbonated bubble before disappearing into the clear liquid entirely, an unknown substance now a part of the drink Victor is casually offering up like a cup of water.

And suddenly, none of this is interesting anymore at all.

Swallowing harshly, Sherlock ignores the harsh burn in his throat as terror ripples up the back of his neck and sets all the hairs on his arms on end, the very real threat of being drugged and entirely out of control sitting at eye-level and making him break out in a cold sweat, winding his stomach into knots and draining the color from his face.

Jesus Christ.

It's so bloody obvious now, so blatant what with Victor's pristine appearance and pride in neatness, and yet the realization comes like an actual blow to the head, knocking Sherlock off center and leaving him floating in a hazy reality that he's struggling to believe clearly, his mouth suddenly gone dry and cottony as he stares at the liquid swirling only centimeters from his lips.

Victor was planning to _drug_ him.

"You're a bigger pussy than I thought you'd be," Victor's calm tone snaps him out of his frozen panic as his Chemistry partner sits back a bit, finally dragging that spiked drink out of his face, the cadence of Victor's voice a notch lower than usual, his body relaxing into someone entirely different, features falling dark and cold like some predator, frigid and detached like the boy in front of him is absolutely _nothing_.

And even as he can see it so utterly clearly, can see everything bright and obvious, can finally see his Chemistry partner for who he really is, it still doesn't stop the cruelty of Victor's words from slicing through him like a knife and cutting him down to about three inches tall, the name-calling and disgusted staring and furious glaring all too familiar from his Secondary School days.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Sherlock snips back, never letting his eyes leave Victor's, automatic reaction to fight back rolling the words out of his mouth without a second thought.

Lips pulling back revealing brilliant white teeth into something like a cruel sneer, like Sherlock fighting back is something of a joke, Victor's eyes _gleam_. "You think you're so clever, eh? Being a fucking tease all semester. Like you're some bloody prize to be won. Who the hell do you think you are?"

And Sherlock, even with an actual threat dripping in front of him, just can't help it.

He laughs.

Out loud.

A burst of condescending sound rattles the room, startling them both with the harshness of it but truly the genius boy just can't help himself. "A _tease_?" Sherlock stares at his Chemistry partner incredulously. "Did you seriously think I was _interested_ in you?" Another tiny patronizing huff of laughter leaves his lips even as Victor's face darkens tellingly. "What on _earth_ gave you that idea?"

A vicious glower shudders Victor's features severely, emerald eyes practically burning with the fire blazing within them. "You are such a fucking freak," Victor bites out through clenched teeth, the words clearly intended to hurt as badly as they do. "I offered to be your friend, Sherlock. Your _friend_. How many people did that for you, huh? Yeah. _No one_. You're such a loser stalking around campus like you're so much smarter than everyone else even though I'm certain you've never had a cock in your arse, pathetic virgin pretending to be so much higher and mightier than everyone else. And finally someone shows interest in you, _I_ showed interest in you. And this is how you repay me?"

"Yeah I apologize for not agreeing to be drugged," Sherlock growls, gathering his things from the floor and shoving them into his bag in an attempt to hide his shaking hands, fury and fear warring for dominance within him, the bite of Victor's words getting to him more than he'd like, not realizing how comfortable he'd gotten with not being spoken to like this since he'd come to university. "I suppose that's where this 'freak' draws the line. So sorry you didn't get the memo on that."

"Oh come _on_ ," Victor scoffs with an ugly grin. "Do you really think you could get through it without something to relax that tight little arse of yours?" He shakes his head as though Sherlock is just a ridiculous little fool that he's taking care of. "I was just trying to help, Sherlock. I knew you'd _love_ being fucked once we started."

"Great," Sherlock shoves his books into his bag, desperately keeping the tears at bay until he's at least out of the house, pulse pounding so hard in his neck he thinks it may actually explode out of sheer terror, the crudeness of Victor's tone making him feel sick. "Good luck with Chemistry. You'll need it since you'll probably fail without my help."

"Oh please, I don't need _you_ ," Victor chuckles darkly as Sherlock steps past him, thanking whoever is watching over him that he was right since Victor didn't reach out and grab him, doubting he could manage to fight off the boy when he's trembling so harshly. "Where are you going?"

"Away from you," Sherlock mutters, shifting his bag over his shoulder and reaching for the door just as he hears another piercing cackle from behind him.

"Are you serious, freak? Going to run away now? Can't man up and take it?"

"Fuck off," Sherlock breathes just as his hand lands on the handle.

"Yeah alright, run away little boy," Victor croons behind him. "Hurry home to your dear old _Johnny Boy_."

It makes his step falter, the ugly twist Victor gives John's rugby nickname, the fact that Victor says John's name _at all_ and he hates that he's shown that tiny bit of weakness because Victor capitalizes on it immediately, taking full advantage as Sherlock tries to make his feet work, breath coming harshly as he listens to Victor's footsteps get closer.

"Oh god," Victor whispers, before the two soft words lilt over with a chuckle that turns into a full-fledged cackle. "Oh that is so _pathetic_. Is that why? It is because of _John_ that you won't give it up? Do you seriously think that John Watson wants _you_?"

It's like a thick layer of ice has formed around his ankles, freezing him to the spot, not allowing him to move an inch, even as he feels hot breath on his neck, even as the snake slithers closer and wraps its words around him in a vice grip.

"You thought you were hiding it so well, didn't you, sweetheart? Thought no one knew? Thought the world was oblivious to your ridiculous little _crush_?"

The nickname makes Sherlock's stomach lurch in revulsion but still he can't seem to move, too stunned at the notion of his deepest secret being known by such a vile human being, in too much pain as the truth of the matter is shoved in his face, a truth he thought was safe in his own head.

"You weren't," Victor murmurs the words so close to his ear, Sherlock can feel the dampness of his lips and he cringes away **.** "Seriously, Sherlock, have you _met_ John Watson?"

He wants so badly to run. To race out of this house and never come back. To erase the sound of Victor Trevor's voice making a mockery of his feelings for his dorm mate and humiliating him.

But his legs don't seem to be able to hear his brain screaming at them to _move_ and so he stays, trapped between the outside world and the hell that is his Chemistry partner's house, having no idea what's keeping him here and yet feeling like maybe he deserves every word.

It's not like Victor is wrong.

"He is a _rugby player_ , Sherlock," Victor continues, clearly delighted that Sherlock hasn't left yet, indulging in the silence of the genius boy while he tears him down to nothing. "A fit, sexy as fuck bloke." Victor sighs. "Hell, I'd have a go at him if I thought he swung that way. Take that gorgeous boy to bed, bend him over and fuck him good and proper. All blond hair and blue eyes? Fuck _me_ , is he hot."

It's a very real possibility that vomit may actually come out of his mouth. Even before the tears.

"But you?" Victor chuckles in his ear. "What a joke. He will _never_ want to fuck a freak like you, Sherlock Holmes. I'd take my offer if you ever want to lose that pesky virginity of yours."

"Not in a million years will I ever let you lay a hand on me," Sherlock murmurs, even if the conviction of the words are hindered by the shakiness of them.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Victor croons evilly, and Sherlock can hear the smirk in his tone. "I think you might be back sooner than you think. Because I can promise you one thing, Sherlock; John Watson will _never_ want you."

And just when his knees are threatening to buckle with the weight of the truth of Victor's words, threatening to take him down and never let him leave this god-awful place, the front door clicks open, snapping Sherlock out of his statuesque position and he only barely manages not to mow Paul right over in his haste to get out the door, panting as he tears down the steps.

"Oi, watch it-…. Sherlock?"

He hears it, but he doesn't register it, not when he can finally breathe fresh air, can finally get away, can finally run and run and _run_ , down the stairs, across the street and around the corner, away from the bastard that is Victor Trevor and all the hurtful truths he speaks, the pain of it twisting his insides harshly and squeezing, threatening to choke the life out of him entirely.

He doesn't know how long he runs for, doesn't know how long his feet have been pounding against the pavement but by the time he stops, slamming his back against a brick wall and heaving a breath, he realizes the cold, hard facts of his situation.

He has absolutely nowhere to go.

He can't… he's not… not when… not when John…

Oh god.

_John_.

It aches to even think his name, to even hear those four letters ring in his head and before he can talk himself out of it, before he can overthink it, before he can realize how useless it will be, Sherlock's hand is diving into his pocket and retrieving his mobile, swiping it open and tapping to find the contact he needs even as his vision swims. He stabs the Call button and raises the phone to his ear, waiting only a short moment before the line clicks over and a familiar voice comes on.

And Sherlock finally releases the breath he's been holding, the sound of his voice being spoken by someone other than Victor Trevor making the rope tied snuggly around his insides loosen.

He closes his eyes and breathes her name, thanking Christ that he still has one friend in this world. One friendship he hasn't royally fucked up.

"Irene?"

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Paul Dimmock:**   
Jesus, I am so sorry, I went for a run.

**John Watson:**   
Where is Sherlock?

**Greg Lestrade:**   
Is Sherlock there?

**Irene Adler:**   
Did you see Sherlock?

**Paul Dimmock:**   
Oi, there are three of you on this text, it's only necessary for one of you to ask the same question.

**Paul Dimmock:**   
He was leaving right when I got here. Almost knocked me over on his way out.

**John Watson:**   
Is he okay? Did he say where he was going?

**Paul Dimmock:**   
No, he didn't say anything but he didn't look very happy.

**John Watson:**   
What does that mean?

**Greg Lestrade:**   
More detail would be good here, Paul.

**Paul Dimmock:**   
He didn't look scared or anything like I thought he might. Just… sad? Maybe a little angry?

**John Watson:**   
Christ. Tell him to come home.

**Paul Dimmock:**   
He's gone, mate, I just ran out to see if I could catch him. He's gone.

**John Watson:**   
FUCK

**Greg Lestrade:**   
I'm calling Mycroft. He's got resources to track him down.

**Irene Adler:**   
Sherlock called me.

**Greg Lestrade:**   
WHAT?

**John Watson:**   
He called YOU?

**Irene Adler:**   
Yes. We are FRIENDS you know.

**John Watson:**   
I know I just was hoping he'd

**John Watson:**   
Well, never mind. He's safe now.

**Irene Adler:**   
I'm talking to him now. I'll let you know when I know more.

**John Watson:**   
Please tell him to go home. Please.

**Irene Adler:**   
On it.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Are you alright?"

Irene's voice is demanding right from the start and Sherlock attempts to calm his panting, sagging a bit in relief at the familiarity of Irene Adler's biting tone. "Yes," he murmurs into the phone on a whooshing exhale.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"No," Irene snaps immediately. "You do not get to tell me nothing happened, Sherlock. You've literally never ever called me, I don't even think you've _texted_ me before this. Tell me what happened."

Sighing in resignation, Sherlock runs a shaky hand through his hair and appreciates that Irene gives him a moment to compose himself. "Nothing," he says again and then tacks on, "not really." He takes another gulp of air, attempting to calm his pounding heart, getting himself under control before he admits, "I just… you were right. About Victor."

There is a pause and then the voice on the other end is _growling_ in response, dark and hard like Sherlock has never heard it before. "What the _fuck_ did he do?"

Irene sounds furious and Sherlock silently thanks her for it, throat threatening to close as appreciative tears sting his eyes. "He… technically nothing but he… he tried to. I, uh - I realized it before anything happened and I left."

"Did he touch you?"

"No."

"Sherlock."

"He didn't," Sherlock says with more conviction, swallowing around a dry throat. It's true enough and he'd prefer not to give details. Not now. Not when it's all so fresh. "Really. He didn't get that far."

There is a long beat of quiet at the other end before Irene breathes out. "You should go home."

Startling slightly, Sherlock frowns down at his mobile as his gut swoops at the thought. "What?"

"Go home. Go back to your dorm."

"Oh," Sherlock's heart drops to his stomach at the thought of going back to his room, the pain of what he knows he'll find there too much to bear. "I… I can't."

"Sherlock, please," Irene says a bit harshly. "I… I don't want you out on the streets right now. Not when… not after all that. What if Victor comes after you?"

"I don't think-"

"Just, please. Please get somewhere safe. For my own sanity, please go back to your dorm."

"Irene you don't get it, I-"

"Sherlock," she cuts him off once more and her tone makes him go silent again. "It will be okay. Whatever happened, it will be okay. Just please, go home."

He flounders for an excuse without explaining, a reason without diving into everything he did, everything he _said_. "I… you don't know, Irene, I… I did… I said things-"

"It doesn't matter. Go home. Seriously, trust me on this, okay? I was right about Victor and I'm right about this. Go home."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Irene Adler:**   
He's headed back to the dorm. I wasn't very nice to him so you'd better get home.

**John Watson:**   
Is he okay?

**Irene Adler:**   
Physically yes. He's pretty upset, though. Victor is a fucking arsehole.

**John Watson:**   
Irene. Is he okay.

**Irene Adler:**   
As far as I can tell, and as far as he said, nothing happened. Though I'm fairly sure Victor must have said something pretty nasty. But I don't think he laid a hand on him.

**John Watson:**   
Thank god.

**Iren Adler:**   
He's okay. He's just… sad. Go home and see him, okay? He needs you.

**John Watson:**   
On my way now. Thank you Irene.

**Irene Adler:**   
You're welcome.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

It's been an awfully long time since he's felt quite this alone in the world.

After so many years on his own, so many years building perfectly thick walls to keep anyone, and everyone, out of his life, so many years learning to be completely self-reliant, finding out at an early age that it was simply better, definitely more convenient, certainly _safer_ to be alone entirely, Sherlock now cannot imagine that life he's led for so long. He can't see it at all, can't picture that lonely boy in secondary school getting taunted and pummeled and berated on a daily basis, can't remember what it felt like to hold his head high and ignore everything and everyone and worry only about himself and his wants and his needs, vowing to never rely on another person again. He cannot remember that boy he was anymore.

Because that boy went and applied to university, moved into a dorm room and laid eyes on John Watson and since that very first day, that very first time that blond boy arrived in his room, everything in Sherlock's world has changed.

Everything.

From his eating habits to his daily concerns to his school routine, every little facet of Sherlock's life has broken itself down bit by bit, so subtly so completely inconspicuous that he'd barely noticed, every little piece moving apart and reworking themselves, drifting and reshaping and recreating to change the center of Sherlock's universe from himself to someone else, someone of the utmost importance, someone who Sherlock now gravitates around, slowly orbiting and moving in time with, syncing every piece of his life to one single entity, one single being, one single blond, beautiful boy.

John Watson.

And so naturally, as his luck has always had it, this life-altering realization comes right at the moment when he's already lost it all. When he's already been so unforgivably horrible. When he's already lost John Watson forever.

And pushing open the door to their shared dorm room, breath caught in his throat on an aching swallow, Sherlock is both relieved and disappointed to find their space completely void of his perfect roommate, the silence slamming into him like a punch to the gut while the idea that maybe John has gone altogether without making a scene makes the coward in him breathe a sigh of relief.

And both of these thoughts crashing together in his chest create the ugliest, heaviest sob he's ever allowed to fall from his mouth, but right at this moment it doesn't seem to matter because the door is shut and he's alone, he's all bloody alone and god if it doesn't _hurt_.

Why is he even fucking here? Why did he listen to Irene? Why is he such a goddamn fuck up all the time? He'd sworn he'd heard something unsaid in her voice, something she couldn't say, _something_ but yet again, he'd must have imagined it entirely, just like everything else good in his life, must have made it all up in his head, wanting it too badly to realize he'd gotten his hopes up. And now he's here. Alone. All bloody _alone_.

Staggering inside as his vision swims with unshed tears, knees threatening to buckle and bring him to the floor, Sherlock manages to land a hand on his bed to steady himself, chest heaving as the burning in his throat gives way to a fresh, quiet cry of sheer agony at the loss of his friendship. The friendship that he'd let come into his life, that he'd let all but consume him, that he'd let blind him to other vicious creatures like Victor sodding Trevor to step through his open door because that blond rugby player living in his room had opened Sherlock's eyes to a world full of possibilities and connections that could make him better, make his lonely life better, made him greedy with the need to have more friends, make him think there were more people like John Watson in the world.

How stupid he had been.

There is only one John Watson.

And Sherlock had _had_ him. Sherlock had become _something_ to John, some factor of importance, formed some sort of bond. They'd been connected.

They'd been friends.

_Best_ friends.

And now it's too late.

Now he'd let pride and selfishness get in the way and he'd ruined everything over a stupid bastard of a boy who wanted nothing more than Sherlock's body. Not his brain, like John, not his experiments, like John, not his snark or his condescension or his snappishness, like _John_.

And as much as Sherlock wants to blame Victor Trevor for making a fool of him, blame him for the loss of the most important thing he's ever had in his life, he can't. Because he knows it's not true.

Sherlock knows this is his own fault.

And maybe it would have happened eventually. Maybe he and John were never meant to be anything more than the few month friendship that they had. Maybe it was never in the cards. Maybe this living situation was always meant to end suddenly and tragically for Sherlock Holmes.

But it doesn't matter now.

Watching the blurry droplets of tears fall down his cheeks and onto his comforter, Sherlock lets this moment of vulnerability swallow him whole for just a few minutes, just in the few quiet moments when no one else is near, Sherlock weeps for the loss of his first, and very best, friend John Watson. He weeps for the beautiful months they'd spent together, the perfect link they'd formed. He weeps for big, brilliant smiles and round, shimmering cobalt eyes and loud belly laughs. He weeps for nightly dinners and teasing giggles and fond headshakes. Christ, it _hurts_ deeper than he'd even thought possible, the emptiness in his heart seeming to grow wider and enveloping him harshly, showing no mercy, not that he deserves any, feeling the pain all the way down to the tips of his toes, racking his entire body with the weight of a dead friendship.

Wiping his nose and his eyes along his sleeve, bottom lip still trembling delicately, Sherlock attempts to straighten his shaking body, fighting through the need to curl up forever, and turns with his eyes still closed, preparing to allow himself to survey John's side of the room, giving into one last impulse, hoping John left at least something behind of himself, something Sherlock could cling to and hold onto and remember him by.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he opens his damp eyes, vision wobbling for a moment before the water clears and he can see.

And he finds that everything on John's perfectly neat side of the room is still there.

_Everything_.

John's laptop sits perched on his desk, closed and angled at the perfect center of the table, power chord plugged in neatly. John's chair is still tucked into his desk, untouched since the last time Sherlock was in here. John's perfectly folded clothing lays across his comforter, every item stacked and separated into appropriate piles from laundry this morning, socks on one side, boxers beside them, undershirts to the right, jeans to the left, button-downs laid out flat, ready to be hung up in the closet.

Maybe John fled.

Left all his belongings, all the things tainted by his despicable roommate, and left for good. Maybe he'd been so furious that he'd taken nothing but his phone and stormed out. Maybe he's never coming back.

Maybe it's better that way.

And it may be but it doesn't keep Sherlock's eyes from continuing their roam, landing on John's rugby uniform, sitting just next to his pillow, folded perfectly in order, shorts on the bottom, jersey on the top, turned down precisely to display the number three blocked on the back, the base of six letters peaking out at the very tip of the crease.

WATSON.

Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip as it quivers harshly at the sight of that infamous jersey, the one that had awakened something inside of Sherlock that he didn't know existed, the one that fit John Watson's stocky body so precisely, the one that gave Sherlock the most incredible dreams he'd ever had, he allows himself, just this once, to reach out and run his fingers over the white acrylic, tracing the lines with his fingers and shuddering.

And before he's even fully aware of what he's doing, before he can bloody stop himself, Sherlock is closing his hand around the cotton and pulling it toward him, clutching it in both hands and pressing it to his tear-stained face, closing his eyes and inhaling, body overcome with the rush of pheromones and soft detergent scent and something that is wholly John racing into his system and filling him to the brim, another fresh sob escaping his mouth as he holds the jersey close to him. Like he would hold John.

Close. So utterly _close_.

And without his consent at all, Sherlock's fingers are suddenly releasing the jersey back to the bed and promptly flying down the buttons of his shirt, pulling it smoothly over his head once enough space allows and retrieving the black and white sport shirt into his grasp.

And without another thought, he slips it on.

It slides down around his body like silk.

It's too big, of course it is, but it doesn't matter because it's warm and it's so soft and it's so _John_ , like John is cuddling him close and touching him tenderly and cradling him in his arms. Christ how he wishes John would hold him. Hug him tightly and keep him.

Christ, how Sherlock wants to be kept by John Watson.

Hanging his head, allowing the tears to drop straight from his eyes to the tiled floor, careful not to get any salty water on the jersey hanging off his shoulders, Sherlock's body somehow feels calmer, snuggly wrapped in the cotton of the boy he adores so much, fiddling with the hem of the front with shaky fingers, not realizing that putting this on would tear him right in two. The one half of him has his heart shaking in his chest at the feeling of this beloved item of clothing finally touching his skin, soothing every part of his body with the softness of it, with the idea that John wears this, that John owns this, that Sherlock wishes so much that he could actually physically become this jersey. Then he could stay with John. Always.

And then there is the other half of him. The half that is threatening to double him over in agony as he realizes he will never ever have this again. He will never put this jersey on after this. He will probably never see this jersey again or the boy it belongs to. He will never again be wrapped up in it like this, he will never be wrapped up in _John_ like this.

This is the closest he will ever get to actually touching John Watson.

It's almost comical, crying over someone like this who was never actually _his_ someone. He might laugh if it weren't so tragic. But maybe now he can get over this. Maybe now he can move on from his silly infatuation with a beautiful rugby player who would never have him in that capacity anyway. Maybe now he can stop thinking about his _ridiculous little crush_ as Victor so lovingly put it.

That thought alone sounds hollow. He knows that's not true. He knows it was always something more than a crush or an infatuation with John Watson.

But it doesn't matter now, does it? It's all over anyway.

The hole in his chest throbs and forces one last set of twin tears tracking their way down his cheeks and onto the floor and Sherlock closes his eyes, fingers tracing the stitching along the hem of the jersey, the giant number and the six letters searing into his back like a brand, accepting being fully owned and yet no longer cared for by John Watson.

And maybe if Sherlock hadn't been so deeply in grief, hadn't been wallowing in the closest he'd ever get to being held by John Watson, well.

He may have just heard the lock on his dorm room click.

And he may have just heard the door open behind him.

And maybe, just maybe, he'd have heard the two steps that followed the creak of the hinge, the soft inhale of a small gasp, and the door falling shut loudly with a thud.

And then maybe he'd have been prepared for the four words that followed the sounds, tearing him free from the black hole of his sorrow and sending him into a full-blown panic as John Watson speaks from behind him.

 

"Wh-what are you doing?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better than the last cliffhanger, right?! Or... no? ;)
> 
> THANK YOU FOR READING! We're having a constant lovefest on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come join in! XO!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _THANK YOU THANK YOU to ishaveforsherl for putting up with my anxiety attack and dramatics, I appreciate you very very much and cannot thank you enough for not only the help on this chapter but everything else you do for me! Also thank you to awkwardtiming for making me feel like a rockstar while giving me sound advice and excellent edits! XOXO TO YOU BOTH!_  

_Wh–what are you doing?_

 

It's like a bomb going off.

Four words uttered from that very distinct, clear voice might as well be the shrapnel of an explosion, scattering itself around their dorm room for how hard Sherlock's ears ring with the aftershocks, the coolest of shivers trickling down his spine ever so slowly spreading out to every cell of his body, limb by limb, utterly shocking him into place, fingers snapping tightly closed over the hem of the jersey still on him and Sherlock cannot seem to comprehend anything around him as his world tilts off its axis.

He's standing here.

In the middle of his and John's room.

Wearing John Watson's rugby jersey.

And John is now here. _Seeing Sherlock in his rugby jersey._

Jesus Christ.

This _cannot_ be happening.

What in the actual fuck had gone through his stupid goddamn brain when he'd decided that this was a bloody _brilliant_ idea? What had possessed him to grab this jersey that doesn't belong to him and put it on? Who the _hell_ did he think he was?

Sherlock can't remember for the life of him what had gone through his head at the point of stripping his shirt off and redressing in this one, but he knows for certain that it had been the worst fucking idea of his entire existence, because now John is here, John is _seeing him_ in this jersey and oh god can the ground please just open and swallow him whole because Sherlock would prefer to just die, just drop dead right here in the center of his dorm room and never ever have to deal with what comes next.

Because what comes next is going to be bloody _humiliating_.

Blinking away the last of the stubborn tears still stinging his eyes and staying as still as possible, hoping maybe if he doesn't move John might forget he's there entirely and leave without another word, Sherlock doesn't dare turn around, doesn't dare to _blink_ , wishing this entire situation away, wishing he'd never come back to this room, wishing he'd never come to university _at all_.

"Wh-" the voice starts again then stops, sounding closer and yet lost and the ringing in the genius' ears dulls to a low garbled roar as his head begins to spin, like he's suddenly been swept away by a giant wave that is threatening to drown him and that's fine, that's entirely fine because the absolute worst day of Sherlock's entire life somehow just got even worse and if he could just disappear into the sea that would be ideal.

"Sher-"

_Please_ , he silently begs, keeping his eyes down and away and definitively _not_ turning, _please make him leave. Please don't make this worse than it already is._

"I-… wh-"

John is still stuttering and Sherlock is still refusing to turn, still entirely _set_ on refusing to turn, refusing to let John see what a complete mess he is, refusing to look at John, refusing to allow this entire situation to become real. His throat feels like it could close at any moment, shut itself tight and suffocate him, short and quick and Sherlock would welcome death with open arms.

At least then, he wouldn't have to face John.

Face reality.

Face what he's _done_.

"Wha-" the boy behind him breathes again and Sherlock's heart sinks like a stone sitting heavy in his chest, the reality of the situation finally catching up to him, drawing him into a very silent but very real panic.

Oh god, does John hate him? Does he really and truly detest him? And if he doesn't, is this the final nail in the coffin of their friendship? Has Sherlock truly ruined everything? It hurts to remember what he said, what he _did_ , it hurts to even have to _ask_ himself, it hurts being so damn close to John and having no idea where they stand, no idea why John is back here after everything Sherlock said and did and after _Victor_ -

Just the thought of seeing that beautiful blond boy he lives with after everything that happened earlier makes Sherlock's stomach twist up in tight, uncomfortable knots but the thought that John is here, that John can see in plain view just how much of a line Sherlock has crossed, putting on John's clothes like some creepy fuck, wallowing in a misery he himself created, sobbing for a nonexistent relationship, it makes him want to vomit from utter humiliation.

Jesus, he is pathetic.

So goddamn _pathetic_.

And now John knows it.

Now John knows _all_ of it.

And just as Sherlock is about to take fate into his own hands, shut down entirely and storm out, ignore John entirely and this situation and the damn jersey on his back, pretend nothing is wrong, that nothing is amiss here, because it's the best plan he can think of on such short notice-

Something shocks him right back into place.

Something brings his thoughts to a standstill, stopping his plans completely and keeping him from moving even a millimeter from where he still stands with his back to the rugby player that lives in his room.

The rugby player that has gotten much closer now.

The rugby player who is _right behind him_.

And Sherlock comes to just long enough to realize he knows John is behind him because there is a quiet hand on his arm.

Touching him.

Oh god, John is _touching_ him.

The gentlest of touches, light as a feather consisting mainly of fingertips along his shoulder brings his brain to another grinding halt, steadying his chaotic thoughts into dizzying silence, knocking him off center once again, blinking rapidly down at where his hands are still clutching the jersey at the hemline and attempting to decipher what in the hell is going on.

John Watson is _touching him_.

He can't seem to compute that in his giant mind because the touch tightens a bit, curving down and brushing fingertips against his collarbone and Christ Almighty who sucked all the air out of this room because Sherlock cannot _breathe_.

Sweat forms along his hairline as his thoughts spin and spin, making him wobbly with confusion and wonder and, god, _hope_ that maybe… just maybe…

Until those spinning thoughts switch direction, sweeping hope away and replacing it with a rising fear, sprinkling horrible possibilities in place of the pleasant ones, forcing those beads of sweat sitting along his brow to double and form one dollop that slides down his temple at the thought that John may have just come over here to do something besides soothe Sherlock with his touch.

Maybe he came over here to yell.

Maybe he came over here to whip Sherlock right around and get up in his face and demand to know who the bloody hell he thinks he is wearing John's jersey like this.

Maybe he came over here to land a nice blow to Sherlock's face for putting on a piece of clothing that doesn't belong to him.

And just as those thoughts are staking their claim as truth and on their way to panicking Sherlock into an anxiety attack, the tug from the fingers on his shoulder pulls him free from his mind and for one long moment Sherlock feels like he's falling as he turns dazedly, eyes blurry and unfocused as he comes face to face with a short figure he can barely make out.

He blinks several times, clearing his vision and his head and stares down into blue eyes that are focused right over Sherlock's heart, pink lips parted, breath coming out in soft pants.

He can't help noticing that John hasn't taken his hand off his shoulder.

He can't help noticing that John hasn't yelled or berated or hit him.

He can't help noticing that John doesn't look angry or upset.

God, what is _happening_?

Truthfully, John looks a bit… disoriented? Or perplexed? Maybe a little helpless?

The look is practically unreadable with how often it changes and Sherlock finds himself holding his breath, desperately trying to decipher John's thoughts. Giant eyes are glued to the fabric sitting against Sherlock's body, brows pinched not in fury but something akin to confusion, his gaze unfocused and lost, bottom lip pinched between teeth as his gaze never falters from its spot on Sherlock.

"What-" John whispers to the genius boy's chest, other hand rising to lay flat against Sherlock's sternum, a tiny gasp leaving either one or both of their mouths at the second touch. "What are you… what are you _doing_?"

And it doesn't sound cross. It doesn't sound irritated or disgusted or pissed off.

It sounds… shocked.

Overwhelmed.

Maybe a little terrified.

Like he's pleading with Sherlock to explain why exactly he's wearing this because John can't seem to fathom it, beautiful blue eyes looking stranded and defenseless and darker than usual, like he has absolutely no idea what on earth he's supposed to do with Sherlock Holmes standing here in his rugby uniform.

Or maybe like he has no other choice than to do what he does next.

Because the look on his face remains the same even as it closes in on Sherlock's, cobalt irises finally raising to find Sherlock's grey, still swimming with vulnerability as they lock in on the genius, exposing so many truths Sherlock had never dreamed possible.

"Are you alright?" John's eyes widen as they finally meet Sherlock's, noting the red-rims and the tear tracks.

Sherlock can only nod, unable to speak, unable to think past how close John is to him, how clearly he can see every single line, every single crease in John's face, how John's round cheeks are lightly sun-kissed, how gentle his features are.

How unbelievably _perfect_ he is.

The curly-haired boy only has a brief moment to take all this in before the hands on his body are both sliding to the center of his chest and fingers are curling into fabric and suddenly Sherlock is being moved, slowly, ever so _slowly_ being tipped forward by strong muscles tugging the jersey down and Sherlock along with it, down into the open space between the roommate's heights, the space Sherlock has never dreamed to breach for fear of being too close, down into territory of John Watson's face and John Watson's breath and John Watson's lips.

John Watson's _lips_.

And then those lips are moving closer, so much closer and Sherlock's eyes widen as John's slip closed and then-

And then it is so utterly _soft_.

It's tender pink lips pressing against a cupid's bow.

It's tentative pressure, so utterly careful.

It's a kiss.

A sweet, reverent _kiss_.

A kiss from _John bloody Watson_.

And Sherlock can't bring himself to move a muscle.

His mouth attempts a gasp out of pure shock but the small puff of air is hindered by John's lips on his lips and John sighs like the breath was lovely and Sherlock's eyes flutter closed at their own accord, loudly spinning thoughts finally quieting themselves down to a low murmur as John steps closer and presses in deeper, tilting his head for better access and Sherlock accommodates with his own angling, only moving slightly for fear of spooking the boy holding onto him, terrified that if he brings John's attention anywhere away from where their lips are connected John may realize he didn't actually mean to kiss Sherlock and stop immediately.

_Oh god, please don't realize. Please keep kissing me. Please please please._

Soft lips shift against his and Sherlock stiffens in panic at the thought that John may be pulling away but the rugby player simply goes back in, applying firmer pressure to Sherlock's lips and exhaling through his nose, warm breath ghosting along Sherlock's cheek like another kiss all on its own and the genius boy's shoulders sag slightly in pleasure.

Christ, such a small thing shouldn't feel so bloody good but Sherlock's inexperienced body doesn't care because it's John Watson's lips on his and John Watson's breath on his cheek and John Watson's hands on his chest and before he can stop it, before he can swallow it back down into his throat and hide it forever, a soft little moan escapes into his closed mouth, stifling it enough that if they were anywhere besides a small, silent room it would go unnoticed.

But John notices it.

John notices it and responds with a hum of his own and opens his mouth slightly just enough to tug Sherlock's lower lip inside and lick along the edge with one gentle swipe of his tongue, caressing the skin reverently, holding it snuggly between his own.

And Sherlock's next gasp is out of sheer surprise because, fucking hell, _how_ can such a small touch set every nerve in his body singing like it does and a shiver accompanies the little breath that also happens to open his own mouth.

Which John Watson takes full advantage of.

The heat of another mouth on his is the first thing he registers, damp breath clashing against his like fire on fire but that's nothing compared to the wet tongue that is suddenly pressing right up against his, gliding across the muscle smoothly before pulling back and then pushing in once more, plundering Sherlock's mouth effortlessly and slowly and so sensually, there is no other word for it, the sensation sending tiny sparks of heat down the back of Sherlock's neck and he opens his mouth further every time John's gentle ministrations prompt him to.

Good _god_.

_This_ is what kissing is?

_This_ is what he's been missing all these years?

Jesus, if Sherlock had known it would be like this… that it would _feel_ like this, he may have found someone to snog a long time ago-

Well.

That's probably not true.

There hasn't been anyone he's ever _wanted_ to snog before now.

Not until John Watson.

John Watson who is in fact bloody perfect.

John Watson who he never dreamed he'd get to have like this.

John Watson whose _mouth is on his mouth_.

Warm tongues twirl around each other in Sherlock's mouth, John's much stronger and more sure than the curly-haired boy's but it doesn't seem to hinder John a bit as he slips it between Sherlock's teeth, stroking and tasting and what feels like memorizing, pulling a low, pleasurable groan from deep in Sherlock's chest as the insides of his cheeks tingle.

_Fuck_ , John Watson is fantastic at this.

Hands fluttering uselessly at his sides, Sherlock dares to shuffle forward, pushing into John's grip on his chest and lips on his lips, desperate to get a bit closer without spooking the boy currently snogging him senseless.

And that's when John pulls away.

Biting down on a whimper he refuses to let leave his mouth, Sherlock's eyelids flutter open slowly, dazed mind coming back into focus along with his vision, still not quite having the wherewithal to move back or straighten up or do any of the things he should be doing now that gentle lips are no longer kissing his but he just can't quite make it there.

John, thankfully, doesn't go far.

"I know I should probably let go now," John whispers, still hovering near, breath ghosting along his damp skin like another soft kiss, making Sherlock's insides melt into a gooey puddle. "I know I should remove my hands and step back, maybe even step across the room, probably leave entirely but…"

Sherlock holds his breath, still too afraid to open his eyes, too afraid to look, too afraid of shattering this entire moment and waking up from a beautiful dream.

"But I… I _can't_ ," John murmurs and another gentle kiss is dropped to Sherlock's lips, as if John can't keep himself from kissing him. "I can't because if this is… if this is all that I get, I need it to last. I need to keep this moment for as long as you'll let me have it. I don't want to stop-"

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock breathes in a rush, frozen limbs finally snapping into action as he steps forward and wraps his arms around John's waist, tugging him forward and pressing their bodies flush together, swooping down to catch John's lips in another earth-shattering, life-altering snog, gasping softly as a shocked mouth draws Sherlock's lower lip in and licks it gently, John taking being grabbed at easily even as he makes a soft sound of surprise, winding his own arms around Sherlock's shoulders and pulling him down.

And Sherlock gives himself over completely.

Fingers are in his curls at the back of his head, warm chest is pressing to his front and Sherlock is reveling in every single touch, the small body in front of him fitting against his own slender frame so perfectly, like two puzzle pieces slotting into place, the warmth of John heating Sherlock from head to toe exquisitely.

The hand wrapped around the nape of his neck dips its fingers beneath the jersey still fitted down his torso, stroking naked skin back and forth, back and forth, making Sherlock's eyes roll back in his head from beneath closed lids, his own tongue leaping out with more confidence than it has any business having and seeking out John's, brushing and curving, meeting again and again, every encounter better than the one before, every touch making Sherlock's splayed-out fingers curl tighter into John's t-shirt at his upper and lower back, cradling him as close as humanly possible. The warmth of John's skin seeps through his clothing and into Sherlock's hands, strong muscles shifting beneath his touch and Christ why hadn't he done this so many weeks ago? Why hadn't he grabbed John Watson and kissed him breathless on day one?

Jesus, how is this happening right now? How is Sherlock Holmes currently _kissing_ John Watson? How is this _real_?

It's so good, Christ it is _brilliant_ , and another soft sound escapes the genius boy's lips, a sound he refuses to classify as a whimper. Blunt teeth graze along his bottom lip and bite down ever so gently, followed by a smooth swipe of tongue and Sherlock gasps at the sensation of his tingling skin.

"Alright?" John breaks the kiss long enough to whisper, trailing hot breath along Sherlock's mouth and pressing his lips to a cheekbone.

"Yes," Sherlock all but groans in John's ear, stifling the next moan into the blond boy's shoulder as John's mouth finds its way to his neck, tongue laving over his jaw and below his ear. "John."

"Sorry," the rugby player murmurs, unlatching his lips but not moving away, fingernails scratching lightly along Sherlock's scalp soothingly.

"Don't be sorry," Sherlock pleads but catches himself before the rest of what he wants to say spills out.

_Don't be sorry for kissing me. Please want what I want. Please mean it. Please don't ever stop kissing me._

He can't let go and to his great relief John seems uninterested in letting go either and Sherlock only just realizes he's shaking slightly but John is holding him so close, hugging him and rubbing his neck and stroking his curls and whispering softly that _it's alright_ and _it's okay_ and Sherlock allows himself to settle in, holding on just as tightly to his John and let this moment last.

_His_ John.

Oh god, John _is_ his now, right? After this?

It hurts to even think about any alternative and Sherlock clings just a bit tighter to the boy he's wanted for so very long, burying his face in John's neck and breathing him in, hoping desperately that this isn't the end of a single moment but the beginning of many more to come.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

It's stupid, right?

It's fucking ridiculous to lay in your tiny, single bed only meters from your used to be only roommate and now currently your…

Christ, what is the name for him now? Boyfriend? Partner? Bloke you just sucked face with for one long glorious hour until you realized it could never stop because you both live in the same room and it's not like you can leave and if you don't physically stop it things may get… out of hand and they shouldn't because it's all so new and fresh and there is no rush and so you separate yourselves and awkwardly head off to the loo to get ready for bed only to return to find him curled up in his own bed apparently sleeping?

Well okay, you probably wouldn't call him that.

But it is absurd to lay here pining away from your tiny mattress for someone who is literally in the room with you. Right?

John is certain it is.

Maybe a little less absurd and more just incredibly pathetic.

But he doesn't know what else to bloody _do_.

His body is still tingling from those incredible sixty minutes of snogging Sherlock Holmes, his entire frame still vibrating from how soft Sherlock's plump, delectable lips were, how unbelievably sexy the quiet noises he made while kissing John were, how seamlessly they fit together. It had been so unbelievably _perfect_.

And Christ, all John wants is to do it again.

And again.

And again.

And _again_.

Because there Sherlock had been, standing all alone in the center of their room, an hour after they'd exchanged such horrible words, an hour after John had practically had a nervous breakdown at the idea of Sherlock being locked away in some house with Victor Trevor, an hour after John had thought he may have lost him for good, there Sherlock had been, home and safe and adorned in John's rugby jersey, like...

Like he was John's.

Like he belonged in that jersey, belonged in this room, this _home_ , like he belonged with John.

Like he belonged _to_ John.

It was like something falling into place almost peacefully as John laid eyes on that curly-haired boy wearing that rugby uniform that wasn't his.

WATSON had stared back at John perfectly centered along Sherlock's shoulder blades, the number three – _John's_ number three - trailing down his spine just below it and nothing on God's green earth could have stopped John from going to him, from reaching for him, from laying hands on him and kissing him the way Sherlock Holmes deserves to be kissed because no one should be that goddamn beautiful and _not_ be kissed into oblivion.

Oh god, and Sherlock had relaxed into him, finally limbs finally loosening and twining tightly around John's shorter frame like a vine, pulling him in, pulling him close and John could have stayed like that forever. He could kiss Sherlock Holmes _forever_. And now he's currently kicking himself for _not_ kissing Sherlock Holmes forever because he'd tried to be gallant, he'd tried to pull away when his southern region had raised some new, filthy suggestions and found refuge in the loo where he took a nice cold shower, brushed his teeth and got ready to bed, trying to decide how to go about asking Sherlock to sleep with him – and actually _sleep_.

Because John is nothing if not a gentleman and this thing between them needs to go slow. This thing between them is special and it needs time.

And John is willing to give it all the time in the world. Because it is so unbelievably important to him. _Sherlock_ is so unbelievably important to him.

Still, it doesn't douse the need in his fingertips to get his hands back on Sherlock Holmes.

He just wants to touch him. Just stroke his curls now that he's allowed to and kiss his lips now that he's allowed to and cuddle him close now that he's allowed to.

John Watson just wants to be with Sherlock Holmes now that he's allowed to.

And so now that genius boy is laying silent so near and yet so far, probably sleeping by now considering they've been lying in the dark for the past hour, and John is fretting silently as his fingers twitch along his comforter toward the boy he couldn't reach even if he stretched his arm out as far as it would go, but still he fidgets where he lays, wondering if it's too soon, if it's _inappropriately_ soon to ask what he wants to ask but he just can't seem to shake it off, let alone _sleep_ and so before he can stop himself or overthink it or bloody well know better, the word is out of his mouth and he slams his eyes shut and freezes, the sound of his gravely voice deafeningly loud in the silent room.

"Sherlock?"

Oh god.

That was stupid.

John berates himself for a long moment, cursing his idiot mouth for doing anything without his brain's permission, deciding this was in fact a horrible idea-

And then there is a sound.

A soft sound.

A sound of movement.

And John quiets his swirling thoughts and listens hard, still too afraid to actually look in Sherlock's direction.

There is a shift and a rustle and John finally dares to peek over at the bed across the room, only able to make out shapes in the darkness, the light of the moon spilling in through the slats of the curtain hanging against their window. He blinks into the dimly lit room, attempting to decipher what he's seeing as his vision adjusts.

And he barely manages not to gasp as he finally makes out a curly head peering overtop of what looks like a small mountain in the dark although it's most likely just a pillow, and John's stomach swoops at the sight of Sherlock Holmes' shadow staring at him.

"John?"

Sighing dreamily at the sound of a definitely-not-sleeping voice, John breathes a sigh of relief that he hadn't just woken his roommate up, and at the sound of that deep, rumbling voice of the boy he has it so terribly bad for.

Then promptly panics at the realness of the question he's about to pose before chickening out and whispering stupidly, "Are you awake?"

Internally kicking himself for how truly idiotic that question was, John holds his breath.

"Uh-… yes?" Sherlock replies questioningly, like he's unsure if he's really answering such a moronic question, curls tilting slightly as he clearly cocks his head in John's direction.

Steeling himself before letting his nerves, or embarrassment, get the better of him, John fumbles on. "Do you… are you tired?"

Sherlock's form shifts on his bed. "No."

John coughs uncomfortably. "Me either."

A soft exhale of breath comes from the bed on the other side of the room. "Okay."

Pursing his lips so hard they threaten to cramp up, John squeezes his eyes shut and gives himself a brief internal pep talk before sighing heavily and scrubbing a hand down his face. "Do you-" he starts, searching for the words that seem to have scurried off into hiding now that he's finally got his courage back, "er- do you want to… and I don't mean this like… like _that_ but- and of course you can say no, obviously, you don't have to, and I wouldn't be upset or anything and it's completely up to you if you want to or-"

"John," Sherlock cuts him off gently, saying nothing more and John's thoughts quiet themselves at the sound of his name leaving Sherlock's mouth before he breathes out in a rush.

"Do you maybe want to… to come over here-"

He's cut off by a loud squeaking of springs and the small mountain Sherlock had been peeking over falls to the floor followed by uncoordinated limbs tumbling over the edge of the mattress and onto the tile with a soft _mmph_ , the shape of Sherlock Holmes falling off the bed in one fell swoop quite a sight to be seen.

" _Careful_ ," John hisses, though he can't help the giggle that leaves his mouth as he reaches out a hand as if to catch the genius boy practically tripping over himself in his haste to get to John's bed, the sight of his urgency making John's heart pound just a little harder in his chest, deciding this wasn't the worst idea he's ever had, arms already itching to wrap Sherlock up and never let go.

And John grins so hard his cheeks ache, lifting the covers as Sherlock practically dives in, sliding up right next to John, getting himself close and John welcomes him with open arms, pulling him close and chuckling softly as Sherlock eagerly sidles up to him, pressing John back into the mattress, hands falling flat to either side of John's head and hovering over him.

"Turns out I wasn't quite done with you yet," John whispers, brushing the curls off Sherlock's forehead and taking great pleasure in watching Sherlock's eyes close at the touch, a soft shiver racing down his back, his features clearer up close in the darkness, still as smooth and as gorgeous as John had left him an hour ago.

"John," Sherlock whispers and descends upon the rugby player, arms bending to plant elbows on John's pillow for closer access, lips locking over and over again, both of them gasping like they hadn't kissed in months when it's been mere hours, John's hands finding their way into curls and down Sherlock's back, stroking down his flanks and back up, desperate to touch every inch of the beautiful body against him.

His fingers graze along tacky acrylic and John groans softly, tracing the pad of his thumb along his own last name. "You're still wearing my jersey," he murmurs, the thought of Sherlock Holmes planning to sleep in his uniform making his brain cloud with positively obscene thoughts.

"Yes," Sherlock breathes against his lips, faltering for a moment and blinking down at John, worry hovering around his eyes. "Is that… do you want me to take it off?"

" _No_ ," John chokes, and it would have sounded almost angry with how harsh it came out if he didn't reach for Sherlock at the same time, but Christ this boy is going to give him a bloody heart attack, the thought of undressing Sherlock already enticing enough but removing his own clothing from the genius boy's body is _too much._

They need to go _slow_ , dammit.

"Keep it on," John amends, running the flat of his hand down the number three along Sherlock's spine, reveling in the shiver it produces from the slender frame above him. "I like you in it."

The grin he gets in return is blinding, Sherlock's features crinkling adorably and _happily_ and John has to kiss him again, has to pull him down and wrap him up and snog him senseless.

It's probably unsafe, being curled up in bed together like this in the dark, both boys only wearing shorts and t-shirts, grabby hands roaming, moans getting breathier and breathier, but god John can't stop, he needs to kiss Sherlock like he needs air because he's needed this for so long and it's finally happening and that makes it nearly impossible to remove his hands, or lips, from Sherlock's person. His hands race restlessly all over that tall body, opening his mouth further and letting Sherlock in as much as possible, tongues undulating against each other faster and harder.

It takes every ounce in John Watson to keep himself from wrapping arms and legs around Sherlock and pulling him completely on top because that's the exact _opposite_ of slow, but Christ Sherlock is such a bloody good kisser it is almost painful to slow things down, the need building between them hot and heavy and urgent.

But John knows it's the right thing to do and he knows it's for the best and so he calms his body and his mind, dropping his head back to the pillow, resting his hands along Sherlock's cheeks and pulling back gently, desperate kisses waning away to soft tender touches, fingers calming from grabbing to caressing, bodies no longer rocking but settling gently together.

"Sherlock," John whispers hoarsely as the genius attempts to get closer again, bright eyes blue and glowing and currently going wide as John drops back and away, holding Sherlock's face a safe distance above him. "Sherlock hang on."

"What?" the curly-haired boy says breathlessly, making John's heart kick up in his chest at the sound. "What's wrong?"

Shaking his head in an attempt to soothe his partner while he tries to find the right words without actually saying _if we keep going at the rate we're going I'm going to have you naked in about ten minutes_ , John fumbles for reassurances as Sherlock's face falls.

And horror floods John's body as Sherlock goes to move away, shifting out of John's reach as he says softly, "Am I –" averting his eyes to the sheets beneath them, "Am I doing it wrong?"

Something heavy lands harshly on John's heart, weighing it down in his chest at the sight of Sherlock Holmes asking him if he's kissing him incorrectly, making him ache in places he didn't even know he had, wanting nothing more than to convince the boy in his bed that no, _god_ no he didn't make a single mistake, not _ever._

"Hey _no_ , you didn't do anything wrong," John breathes out around the harsh longing in his ribcage at the loss of Sherlock's body heat, arms wrapping around Sherlock's shoulders and pulling him in again. "Come back here. You were perfect, Sherlock, I promise you. God, I could go on kissing you for a very long time."

Blue eyes shift to silver at that statement, Sherlock's cupid's bow mouth quirking up in a shy grin. "Yeah?"

"Oh yeah," John whispers back, tugging him down to lay soft kisses against his lips in reassurance. "Although, we should probably sleep pretty soon, huh?"

"Probably," Sherlock agrees without moving away at all, wiggling in a bit tighter to John's side and staring down at his lips like he's waiting for permission for more kisses.

Which John happily obliges him.

"Seriously," John murmurs in between snogs. "We really _really_ need to sleep. We have school in the morning."

"Okay," Sherlock agrees again, still not attempting to dislodge his mouth from John's.

"Sherlock," John teases with a poke to the side.

"I said okay," Sherlock argues, again still making zero efforts to stop.

" _Sherlock_ ," John laughs out a warning which has no bite at all but Sherlock still sighs and finally pulls back.

"Fine," he grumbles to John's chest as his precious lower lip shifts into a pout that John is fairly certain he has no idea he's making which makes it even more adorable and John hopes the soppy look he's currently giving Sherlock Holmes is hidden in the darkness. With a heavy sigh and something akin to longing in his eyes, the genius lifts himself up and off of John and goes to move off the bed.

Which is entirely unacceptable.

"Where do you think you're going?" John practically growls, grabbing Sherlock's arm and toppling him back over on to him.

"Oh- to my bed?" Sherlock mumbles and even in the dim light John can see his cheeks darken a shade.

"No way," John whispers, leaning up just enough to press a kiss to Sherlock's mouth before whispering, "I just got you in here, you think I'm just going to let you leave now?"

"You said we had to sleep," Sherlock grumbles without any menace, not making any further attempts to leave the bed.

"Yes we do." John grins, drops back to his pillow and pats his chest. "Come here."

Flicking quicksilver eyes up in confusion to John's face, Sherlock looks lost for a beat before realization dawns on him and he smiles that gentle, private smile John swears is just for him, saved for when John does something particularly clever and John's heart turns over in his chest, quite pleased with that reaction. Spinning around and dropping down quickly, Sherlock faces away from John and presses his cheek against John's sternum, hand coming up to rest on John's stomach, snuggling as close as possible and sighing quietly, warm breath seeping through John's t-shirt and into his skin.

It's so cozy and soft, John can't help his own thoughtful sigh of satisfaction, one hand settling along Sherlock's back, soothingly rubbing back and forth along his own name and number, quietly pleased to have this beautiful boy wrapped in his bed _and_ his clothing, the other hand finding its way into dark curls, reveling in the feel of ringlets running between his fingers.

Everything feels warm and tender and it's almost enough to convince John he shouldn't ask, that he should stay quiet and let them sleep, shouldn't bring up anything right now, that they can always talk about it tomorrow or the next day, that nothing needs to be discussed or decided now.

And he wishes it were that easy to will away.

Still, something nags uncomfortably in the back of his mind, slowly creeping to the forefront and snapping its fingers, alerting John to the fact that he won't be able to fully relax with this genius boy in his arms let alone sleep tonight if he doesn't say something now.

Hating himself already for ruining this utterly perfect moment, John shifts slightly.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Sherlock replies around a yawn, head settling further against John's chest.

Sighing internally, John closes his eyes and holds Sherlock just a bit tighter, terrified of spooking him right out of his bed and into the cold, empty one across the room. "What, uh… what happened earlier?"

"I believe they call it snogging, John," Sherlock quips, barely moving from where he lays, though John can practically feel the smirk creasing the genius' features.

John huffs out a surprised laugh before poking Sherlock in the side. "Does kissing me just bring out the snark in you?"

Sherlock giggles a happy little sound that makes John hate himself just a little bit more and settles impossibly closer, cuddling into John as tight as he can.

And the rugby player wishes he would have killed Victor Trevor yesterday so today he could be pleasantly snuggling Sherlock Holmes and not be having this awful thing weighing between them. "No," John murmurs, absently stroking fingers through Sherlock's curls, preemptively trying to soothe him as much as he's trying to soothe himself. "I meant, um… I meant with a… the thing with Victor?"

The reaction is immediate and John regrets ever opening his big fat mouth, the boy in his arms going stock still, no longer and soft and pliant in John's arms, the panic visible and awful and John hates himself so goddamn much, hates that he didn't ask sooner, hates that he basically threw himself on Sherlock the minute he walked in the door instead of checking to make sure everything was alright, hates Victor fucking Trevor for putting them in this situation at all.

And just as he's about to say all of that, to apologize profusely, to let the boy in his arms go back to his own bed and get away from stupid sodding John Watson and his uncontrollable need for Sherlock Holmes, the curly head on his chest snaps up, turns toward him and before John can catch the look on his face, Sherlock buries it in John's neck.

"Hey- woah," John mutters out of shock, faltering only a moment before wrapping his arms back around the boy shaking slightly against him. "What's all this about?"

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock whispers into his skin, his breath trembling along John's collarbone, the arm around John's middle tightening.

The blond boy's heart lodges itself in his throat. "No need to apologize," John whispers, holding his roommate closer, hand rubbing down his back in an attempt to calm him even as John's pulse races.

"Yes there is," Sherlock mumbles, burrowing down further and John can feel the heat of his blushing cheek through his t-shirt. "I should have apologized earlier but I'm… I'm sorry. About all the things I said and how we left it...I- I didn't mean it…"

"It's alright." John lays a kiss in Sherlock's curls. "Really, it's all fine, Sherlock."

"No, it's not," the genius argues with a huff. "I should have apologized sooner and I'm sorry I didn't. I'm sorry. You were right about everything and I'm… sorry."

Something twists uncomfortably in John's stomach at the multiple apologies that are honestly very unlike Sherlock, the idea of being right about this of all things making him feel nauseas, fear encroaching over his swirling thoughts ominously.

"What happened?" he tries again even as his voice shakes, trying to remember Irene had said that nothing physically had happened but how did she actually know, she only spoke with Sherlock for a brief minute and what is something did happen and-

"Nothing," Sherlock whispers, pressing his forehead to John's neck, the sigh leaving his lips ghosting along the rugby player's collarbone. "You were right, though."

"I might need a little more than that, Sherlock," John tries to prod gently without scaring him into silence.

Sighing heavily in resignation, Sherlock breathes softly, "He didn't… he didn't get that far but he definitely… planned to."

The hot burn of fury swells up in John's sternum like a fire doused with gasoline and the rugby player does everything in his power to remain calm because storming out and away from Sherlock just to beat the living hell out of Victor Trevor right now would only do more harm than good but _god_ is the thought tempting, brightly lit images of decking Victor square in the face dancing along his vision, the idea that that sick fuck had any plans of laying a single _finger_ on Sherlock Holmes-

"John."

It takes a moment to realize Sherlock is leaning over him, face crinkled in concern, eyes wide and round and worried, lips parted on his name and John actively unclenches his fists from where they'd curled into the comforter, shaking himself slightly. "Sorry," he mumbles, blinking away the pictures in his head.

"Are you mad at me?" Sherlock's features crease further. "I'm so sorry John, really, I know you were right, I shouldn't have even gone, I'm sorry-"

"No no, hey," John soothes, hands reaching up to lay against Sherlock's cheeks. "None of that now. I'm not mad at you, not at all. I'm mad at _him_. Actually, I'm _furious_ at him." Even without saying his name, John can feel his blood pressure spike with pure hatred. "I cannot believe that vile bloke thought he could put his hands on you-"

"He didn't," Sherlock hurries to reassure him. "I swear to you John, he didn't touch me. I didn't… I didn't let him get that far."

It breaks something in John, knowing Sherlock was in that situation, even if nothing happened it still makes him sick to think about, the idea of someone trying to hurt Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, making him see red. "Alright," John whispers, stroking thumbs along Sherlock's cheekbones, attempting to reassure him as well as reassure himself.

"He didn't touch me," Sherlock emphasizes, grey eyes begging John to believe him. "I swear. He just said some nasty things and then Paul came back and-"

"What did he say?"

Oh god, he shouldn't ask that. He should just let it go, let the issue rest because nothing happened and Sherlock is fine, Sherlock is okay, Sherlock is _safe_ but John is apparently a glutton for pain.

"I-" Sherlock stutters for a moment, mouth opening and closing twice before he snaps his lips shut, holding John's gaze for a long moment, searching his features before sighing and looking away. "Nothing, really."

"Sherlock," John whispers, tucking a stray curl behind the genius boy's ear. "Please tell me."

"It's nothing," Sherlock mumbles to the covers, still avoiding eye contact, though he leans into John's touch. "He… he just pointed out that I don't, you know, have many friends and that this-… that you're straight and that… he said you'd never… want… me."

It takes a full five seconds for John to fully comprehend that broken sentence, wheels turning in his head to catch up before things click into place.

And John's vision blurs with pure, unadulterated _rage_.

"He. Said. _What_?" John growls out from between clenched teeth, the fire re-stoking itself and blazing hotly, reminding him about the murdering of Victor Trevor he'll be doing shortly because that piece of shit told beautiful, stunning, perfect Sherlock Holmes that John Watson didn't want him and Victor Trevor does not deserve to breathe the same goddamn _air_ as his genius roommate.

Icy eyes widen at his tone and Sherlock recoils away, unsure how to take John's demeanor, but the rugby player grabs him before he can move too far, regretting his temper immediately for scaring this gorgeous boy.

"I want you, Sherlock Holmes, Christ, of _course_ I want you," he's muttering raggedly, pulling the genius back down to smother his face in kisses, pressing his lips to Sherlock's cheeks and nose and the corners of his mouth, whispering over and over, "I want you, I want you _so much_ , of _course_ I want you."

The whimper that falls from that cupid's bow mouth is torturous and precious all at once, Sherlock responding in kind with kisses of his own, softly whispered _John_ 's falling from his lips as he lets John kiss him all over, long fingers wrapping around John's where they lay against pale cheeks, clinging to him, letting himself be soothed.

It takes a long moment before they settle together, Sherlock back against his chest, curled around John snuggly. "So, not straight then?"

John yawns into curls and grins. " _Definitely_ not straight."

"Would have been good to know a few weeks back," Sherlock complains with a huff, burrowing sulkily into John's side.

"Sorry," John laughs, pulling Sherlock a bit tighter in, wanting to lighten the mood a bit before they fall asleep, feeling a bit off-kilter and maybe needing some reassurances of his own. "But it's alright, yeah? It's alright that I want you so bloody much?"

It's meant to tease. It's meant to be silly and goofy, just a little rib after such seriousness.

But the pause that follows hinders the joke, the silence being filled with the quiet of the night and the pounding of John's heart getting louder and louder in his ears as he waits with baited breath, feeling more and more idiotic since obviously that's not what Sherlock wants, that clearly the boy just wanted to kiss a little and maybe have a cuddle and maybe that's all because he still hasn't said anything and John is just about to pull away when Sherlock goes first and something heavy and ugly falls harshly into John's stomach.

Well, that's it, then. That's all there-

"What is it that you want?" Sherlock is whispering fiercely, sitting up and staring down at John again and even in the dark John can feel it like the sun searing into his skin, staring up at the dark figure looming over him, only able to make out the outline of bouncy curls and sharp shoulders. "Specifically, I mean. Do you want… me? _All_ of me? Or just… this? Because if all you want is… this, then that's fine. I'll… I can accept whatever you want to give me."

It's like a perfect shot to John's heart, piercing through the center and shattering it into a million pieces, bringing a painful ache to his chest and tears to his eyes as he stares up at the boy he's been mad about for months offering simply his body for John's taking if that's all he can get and Christ it hurts to think about anyone, especially _himself_ , treating Sherlock Holmes like that.

And before the pain can swallow him whole and render him speechless, John surges forward, grabbing Sherlock around the hips and practically tackling him to the opposite side of the bed, grinning as a soft _oomph_ leaves Sherlock's lips as his head hits the comforter.

John smothers the sound with his mouth, pressing the genius into the sheets with slow, gentle kisses, smiling against the boy's lips as Sherlock's arms come up to wrap around John's shoulders.

"You listen to me, Sherlock Holmes," John whispers between kisses, taking Sherlock's bottom lip into his mouth and kneading it with his teeth. " I want you. _All_ of you. Every last bit, okay? I have never been more sure of anything in my life. Do you know how long I've waited for this? How long I've waited for _you_? I am not letting you go now. Not for anything."

"John," is the only answer he gets as Sherlock reaches for more kisses, body rolling helplessly with every touch of mouths.

"If you'll have me," John continues to murmur, trailing his tongue down Sherlock's neck and into the crook of his shoulder, "I will do everything in my power to make you happy. I want to keep kissing you. And seeing you."

"We live together, John," Sherlock giggles, sounding quite amused even as he pulls at John. "Obviously we'll still see each other."

"Alright prat," John grouses, tugging a bit on Sherlock's curls as a bit of a threat. It seems to have the opposite affect on the genius as a small gasp leaves his lips. Hm. John tacks a mental note to his brain to remember that for later. "What I meant was that I'd like to see you properly even though we live together. Like… take you out to dinner and the like. Date you. _Be_ with you."

The heat between them calms to a soft wave of pleasure, greedy urgent kisses cooling off to slow, tender touches, the look of reverent wonder on Sherlock's face worth every minute of waiting that John has done over the last two months.

"Yeah?" Sherlock whispers, bright eyes looking up at John like he's hung the moon just for Sherlock and John's heart skips a beat.

"Yeah," John agrees, leaning down to lay a soft kiss against Sherlock's lips to seal the declaration. "And don't ask me if I'm sure because I _promise_ you, I am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright my darlings, THE GOOD STUFF IS ABOUT TO BEGIN! For those of you who've read my other works, you know very well how much I LOOOOVE ME SOME SMUT and this story is going to be no different! So please, commence following me down the rabbit hole into teenlock sexytimes if you dare, otherwise this may be a good chapter to hop off the Adore You train because our boys are about to get down and dirty ;) GET EXCITED!
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! Please be gentle with your comments, I had a really tough time with this chapter and I'd prefer for you not to comment if you have anything negative to say about it. Thank you!
> 
> We're having a constant lovefest on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come join in!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _THANK YOU VERY VERY VERY MUCH to ishaveforsherl for your patience, kind words, love and friendship, I would not only never be able to get this story done without you but also I wouldn't be able to SURVIVE without you! Thank you for all that you do for me! Also special thank you to awkwardtiming for making me write every day, our writing time whether it be 30 minutes or 3 hours, it helps so so SO much, so thank you thank you for that!_  

In the early hours of Monday morning, before the sun has even fully risen barely peeking through the partially closed slats of their dorm room window and spreading dim light along the comforter, John Watson wakes slowly, coming to with just the softest of sighs, tired eyelids lifting themselves with effort to find out why exact a human-sized furnace is pressed against him, warming him from head to toe under already thick blankets, the chill of London nowhere to be found under layers of warmth that only heavy comforters and close bodies can create.

And John Watson, still half-asleep, feels another sort of warmth bloom in his chest, realization dawning on him and a happy grin taking over his mouth as he blinks into dark curls pushing into his face, the head those curls belong to pressing a smooth cheek against his chest, the rest of that pale slender body fitting itself all the way down John's frame to where his legs are tangled up perfectly with another's.

It's absolutely impossible not to wiggle just a bit closer, pull just a bit tighter, breathe just a bit deeper, and enjoy absolutely every single thing about this moment as John's heart does slow, blissful rolls in his chest, thudding steadily in rhythm with the rise and fall of the shoulder under John's palm, the boy in his arms still fast asleep, inhaling and exhaling contentedly.

Because Sherlock Holmes has been in John Watson's bed since the night before, slumbering away in dreamland right at John's side and this just might be the best damn thing that has ever happened in John Watson's whole entire _life_.

Sleepy snores escape that beautiful cupid's bow of a mouth, puffing quiet breaths of air between the threads of John's t-shirt and whispering along his skin like paced reminders that yes Sherlock is really here and yes Sherlock is really safe and yes Sherlock is really _his_. The early morning glow only adds to the beauty of the moment as John allows himself to drop a kiss into the chaos of curls practically in his mouth and can't help humming a quietly pleased little sound as Sherlock shifts in his sleep, shuffling just that much closer and murmuring something unintelligible into John's chest, long fingers pressing into John's lower back where his arm is slung over John's waist and tugging him nearer, snuggling in with a gentle sigh.

Even in his sleep, Sherlock wants to be as close to John as humanly possible and that fact alone settles a tiny, radiant ember in the rugby player's ribcage, making his insides feel gooey and joyful, wanting nothing more than to keep this boy as close as humanly possible at all times. Absently stroking a hand down the genius boy's still jersey-covered back, the pads of his fingers catching slightly on his own rugby number, John takes a moment to revel in waking up with Sherlock cuddled into him, wearing _his_ uniform, in _his_ bed, pulling him closer and _Christ_ is he happy. There is no other word for it. John Watson is so goddamn _happy_.

Actually, no. Happy doesn't even _begin_ to cover John's emotions right now. Happy doesn't do justice to what he's feeling.

Happy is an understatement.

John is bloody _overjoyed_.

It's a sort of euphoria falling over him now, the very real feeling of Sherlock's weight against him, limbs around him, breath on his body. He's wanted this for _so long_ , so many weeks and months of pining like a lovesick fool, gazing from afar, wishing and hoping and fantasizing and _wanting_ , wanting to touch and hold and be with Sherlock and now…

Now he gets to have it.

Now he gets to have _all_ of it.

And John can't help the tiny squeeze he gives the boy in his arms as another wave of what may be bordering on hysteria washes over him all over again, little tingles of excited energy bursting in his cells like party poppers, making him feel dizzy and giddy and downright ridiculous, grinning so hard at the boy in his bed John is certain his cheeks will ache for days after this but he doesn't care, not even a little because this is what he's been waiting for.

This is what happiness feels like.

And John never wants it to go away.

Tracing a light trail with the backs of his fingers along the sharp edges of Sherlock's face and following the path down to his lips, taking in every angle, every quiet exhale, every small involuntary twitch, John can't take his eyes off this curly-haired genius, can't bring himself to look away even for a moment, the sight of him positively breathtaking.

Jesus but Sherlock is _beautiful_ in the morning.

Well.

Sherlock is _always_ beautiful no matter what time of day it is.

But there is something so peaceful and gorgeous about this brilliant boy curled in John's arms just like he belongs there, comfortable and blissful and snoozing away, huffing gently into John's chest occasionally, pale skin a bit pink in the warmth of their combined body heat, his usually striking features somehow softer and gentler in slumber, pliant and calm, unguarded and perfect.

John's heart feels like it's suddenly too big to be housed between his lungs as he watches his roommate sleep, making his ribcage feel like it's about to burst open at any moment with every emotion he feels for the stunning boy he's wrapped up with, everything he's been attempting to shove deep down and away currently bubbling right back to the surface easily, rolling through him calmly, reminding him of exactly what he's been wanting for all these months and allowing him to bask in the fact that he now has it.

And just as John presses another lingering kiss this time to Sherlock's forehead, the little butterflies in his stomach still twirling and swooping and fluttering giddily, the genius shifts again, this time hips first and John's vision abruptly blurs at the edges, the sappy, flowery happiness he'd been reveling in taking on a sharper, definite tone, kisses and cuddles suddenly only seeming like halfway to enough as a rather gorgeous bloke ruts up against him, alerting John's body to other wants and needs that were content to lay dormant until a rather severe reminder pressed itself against him.

Fuck.

Jesus fucking _fuck._

John Watson is a goddamn _idiot_.

If he'd used his sodding brain for one second last night and not his heart, John would have realized quite clearly just how _dangerous_ sleeping in the same bed as Sherlock Holmes is when John's number one goal with this boy is to go _slow_. How moronic it was of him to assume anything other than what is happening right this bloody minute, though to be fair he hadn't thought past _Get Sherlock Holmes into my bed immediately_.

And now a telling clothed hardness is pressing against his thigh and his own thick flesh still covered beneath his boxer shorts _thank god_ is pushing against a gently rising and falling stomach with every breath Sherlock takes, bringing John's full attention down between them and zeroing in on the soft rub of his own jersey stroking against the head of his-

 _Get it the fuck together_ , _Watson_ , John scolds himself internally, biting down hard on his lip to suppress the moan that's threatening to escape his mouth as Sherlock takes a rather deep breath, pushing his belly into John's erection and making the blond boy squirm-

 _No_.

Not okay.

Slow.

Goddamnit, _slow_.

Unwinding his arm from around Sherlock, John leans away and reaches behind himself, groping blindly with the flat of his palm until his hand finally lands on an extra pillow shoved up against the wall and into the corner of the bed where he'd hastily moved it to last night while making room for his current bedfellow and he breathes a sigh of relief, bringing it over his head and pushing it gently between their hips, careful not to jostle Sherlock in the process, already attempting to shake off the horror of waking up hard on his first morning with the genius boy in his bed.

A sharp intake of breath snaps his attention back up to the boy beside him, the body against his pulling taught for a moment as Sherlock's iron grip on him loosens, crystal blue eyes blinking blearily up at him, slitted and unfocused and fucking _adorable_.

"John?" Sherlock rasps, voice thick with sleep, mouth already falling open in a yawn, long arms unfolding out around them for a long moment and a shiver races through that lengthy body as Sherlock stretches before his limbs go limp again and fall back around John's hips casually, like they've done this before, like they do this every morning.

John loves it.

"Good morning you," John grins, heart stuttering in his chest at the sight of a slowly waking Sherlock Holmes, moving in to press a lingering kiss to the genius boy's sleep-warm cheek, unable to stop himself.

A soft pink dusts Sherlock's sharp cheekbones and he dips his head a bit shyly like he doesn't know how to take the attention first thing in the early hours of the day. "Good morning," he murmurs back, though John can see his lips curve into an indulgent smile.

Jesus Christ, John is so utterly _fucked._

So completely screwed, one hundred percent _gone_ on this darling and sexy and charming and ridiculous and _perfect_ boy in his bed. He takes a moment just to watch this genius awaken, watch the soft light of the sun dance across his pale skin, watch his eyelids work extensively to stay open after being closed for so long, watch him watching _John_.

Because Sherlock is also definitely watching.

Assessing, examining, deducing, Sherlock seems just as content to return the stare, sleepy eyes already on alert, taking in the moment, taking in the boy next to him, taking in the fact that they are _waking up in bed together._ The smallest hint of worry lingers in his irises, the smallest bit of uncertainty like he's not sure if this is really happening or if he's still welcome in this bed now that the sun has risen or what on earth he's supposed to do next in this situation but John can see the twinkle of excitement in his gaze, the novelty of waking up curled in the rugby player's arms clearly having a similar effect on him as it has on John, the delighted grin playing along his mouth a dead giveaway.

Pretty grey eyes glitter as they slowly take John in thoroughly, raking over his fringe and face carefully, clearly allowing himself to indulge in this moment before trailing down John's body, Sherlock's gaze a bit dazed as he takes in his bedmate, a bit disoriented but not unhappy in the least and John lets him look, lets him do whatever he wants because honestly John is always going to let Sherlock do whatever he wants. He's completely powerless against the genius, wanting nothing more than to keep him as happy as humanly possible, keep that combined look of utter wonder and inquisitiveness and fascination and joy on this boy's face at all times. So John allows the ogling and the slow blinks and watches with something edging on glee as Sherlock's eyes fall to the pillow shoved between them, brows furrowing in confusion for a long moment, gears undoubtedly turning in his head before his eyes widen into big, round saucers and clear realization dawns on him.

The pink in his face promptly darkens seven shades into a deep, horrified red, gaze trained on the pillow like a magnet drawn to its mate, unable to look away, unable to look at _John_ , frozen in abject horror, the color in his cheeks so severe John can't quite help himself, the sight to pure and perfect to do anything else.

He giggles.

Sherlock's gaze snaps to his in an instant and John swears the blotchy red turns maroon.

"Safety purposes," John grins with a wink, hauling the furiously blushing genius back against him again, kissing his burning face tenderly in an attempt to soothe the embarrassment, as adorable as it is. "Can't have body parts wandering together in our sleep now can we?"

"Oh my god," Sherlock mutters into John's shirt and the rugby player barks out another laugh, because really this is just too perfect and he is just so damn happy, not even awkward morning wood can dampen his mood.

"Hey come on," John giggles, unable to stop kissing or touching the boy in his arms, rolling Sherlock onto his back and hovering over him, staring adoringly down at deeply red skin that's spread its way down the curly-haired boy's neck and disappearing beneath John's jersey. "It's not like you're the only one with a… ahem, _member_ that's misbehaving."

That seems to soften Sherlock a bit, beautiful blue marble-like eyes peering up at John through dark lashes, worry swimming in a mix of curiosity, hope and _Christ_ is that arousal? "Really?"

"God yeah," John whispers fiercely, hoping his tone conveys enough to comfort the concern. "You clearly don't know what you do to me, Sherlock Holmes."

Arousal seems to drown every other emotion as those glittering irises practically blacken out entirely, making John's insides flood with a lust so intense he has to bite back a moan, the beautiful boy staring heatedly up at him doing nothing to calm his throbbing erection. He thanks a higher power that the barrier pillow is still between them as his cock presses into it. "But," he manages to choke out from a dry throat, unable to look away, the intensity only heightened as he manages to murmur, "we should take things… slow. Yeah?"

That seems to snap Sherlock back into reality, blinking away the deep pools in his eyes and dropping his gaze to his fingers currently fidgeting with the edge of the sheet around his torso. "Of course," he nods quickly, the moment doing nothing to cool the flush in his skin. "I – I didn't-… I w-wasn't _implying_ that-"

"Hey," John grins, tucking the knuckle of his first finger beneath Sherlock's chin and lifting his face back up. "You didn't imply anything. It's simply biology." He drops a quick kiss to that cupid's bow mouth that's currently threatening to tip into a lovable little pout that John is certain will in fact force him to skive off from classes today, throw the sheets over both their heads and ravish Sherlock all day long.

Which is absolutely _not on_.

Not today.

Not _yet_.

Sherlock deserves more than just a dirty romp in the sack the morning of their first night sleeping in the same bed.

Sherlock deserves the entire _world_ as far as John is concerned.

"I want to take this nice and easy," John assures him, dropping soft kisses to the corners of Sherlock's mouth between his words and tracing the pad of his thumb along the genius boy's plump lower lip. "You're very important to me. This thing between us is important to me. I don't wanna go mucking it up by moving too fast, okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock agrees breathily though his gaze has seemed to have gone a bit hazy as his eyelids hang heavy, his lips parting at their own accord, seemingly mesmerized by John touching him like this, tending to him delicately, tangled up in the sheets of their now shared bed, the intimacy of the moment enveloping them both.

"We'll go at our own pace," John continues softly, stroking slow paths back and forth along that delicious lower lip, hardly noticing his own voice going a bit ragged, the quiet of the morning, the warmth of the bed and look in his roommate's eyes doing nothing to hinder the charged moment. "No need to rush anything."

"Yes John," Sherlock breathes, looking a bit dazed and a bit pleased, humiliated blush fading away to a soft flushed pink of an entirely different nature, dark eyes staring up at the rugby player with nothing short of pure unadulterated _lust_.

"Good," John whispers back, no longer able to resist and descending upon the boy, catching his lips in a languid, reassuring kiss, tongues rolling lazily together as the rugby player presses the genius back into the pillow and snogs him, morning breath be damned.

It's still early, and still quiet and the warm cocoon they've wrapped themselves in under the blankets of John's bed is intoxicating, the perfect location to touch tenderly and kiss unhurriedly and revel in one another, in what they've both been wanting for so very long. John hopes this will be the first of many mornings waking up just like this. Just the two of them, enjoying the early hours of the day, touching each other reverently in ways they've never been allowed to before, caressing and cuddling in silent awe that they finally get to have this, lips finding one another's, hands wandering, breathe mingling, privately enjoying the closeness of being together.

Slender fingers find their way into John's fringe, dragging along his scalp delicately causing tiny sparks of pleasure to trickle down his spine as he sighs into Sherlock's mouth, his own hand clutching at Sherlock's hip. "I think I like waking up with you in my bed," John whispers.

"It is rather lovely, isn't it?" Sherlock agrees just as quietly, scratching his nails gently against the hairs at the back of John's neck soothing, tipping his head back and offering his lips for more kisses, eyes never leaving John's face.

" _You_ are what's lovely," John half-heartedly argues, deciding those fingers in his hair should be licensed soothers because _goddamn_ does that feel incredible.

A soft sound escapes Sherlock's lips, something along the lines of surprise mixed with clear pleasure, his breath swirling into John's mouth and twirling its way down into his chest, past his naval and straight to his groin-

"We gotta get up," John mumurs brokenly, though he admittedly doesn't make any move to break away even as the intelligent side of his brain practically shouts at him to be sensible. "We've got class."

"No," Sherlock replies simply, arms winding around John's neck and tugging him closer and John thanks his past self for shoving that pillow between them because it's the only thing currently keeping him from grinding down into that warm, soft body beneath him.

"Yes," John laughs, catching a pouty bottom lip between his teeth and nipping gently. "We have to. Otherwise we'll never leave this bed."

"Fine by me," Sherlock announces ignoring John's weak protests of untangling and instead turning his attention to the soft spot beneath John's ear, lips ghosting along the skin with damp little kisses.

It's making John's thought go fuzzy.

"We… we really should get up," John tries again with increasing difficulty as the boy beneath him gets bolder, a wet tongue sneaking out to lave against the tendons in John's neck, licking and sucking ever so lightly, experimenting expertly and driving John absolutely mad. " _Damn_ that feels good."

"Hm," Sherlock notes with a tone of surprise and does it again, dragging a heated strip up to John's ear and taking the lobe between his lips, nipping the soft tissue with the edges of his teeth just hard enough to make John gasp, the hand on Sherlock's hip curling into his own jersey as if grasping on to his own sanity.

" _Fuck_ ," John whispers brokenly, allowing the exploration to go on for a moment longer before pulling back almost violently, and rather painfully, the loss of contact making him ache in several different places. "We have to stop," he practically growls, barely able to look at the red-lipped, pink-cheeked boy splayed out in his bed without descending upon him all over again and snapping his resolve right in half. Even fully clothed Sherlock looks filthy, like something out of a dirty magazine, debauched and rumpled, spread beneath the sheets wantonly, practically begging for John to have him in any way he desires, usually light eyes darkening tellingly as he gazes up at John from beneath his long lashes.

It's fucking _obscene_.

And John is almost entirely sure this boy has absolutely no idea what he's doing or how he looks right now or what it's _doing to John Watson_ but that doesn't seem to hinder the affect at all as his pulse pounds in his neck, the sight beneath him too much from his young body to handle.

John attempts a deep, calming breath in through his nose and out through his mouth, eyes trained on the pillow and away from the NSFW image that is Sherlock Holmes splayed out in his bed, level-headed thoughts returning to him sluggishly. "We have t-to stop before…before…"

Sitting up quickly, Sherlock places a somewhat unsteady hand on John's thigh, propping the other behind him and peering up at John from beneath messy curls, eyes wide and round and _wanting_. "Before what?" he asks softly, already deep voice dropping to a low husk, lips parted and shiny with saliva and so utterly delectable John could just-

It takes every ounce in John not to tackle him back to the bed and devour that mouth all over again but he manages just, recognizing something beneath those black pools in Sherlock's eyes that reminds him this boy needs to be taken care of.

This boy needs to be tended to properly.

This boy needs more than just a quick wank before school.

"Before we move too fast," the rugby player whispers, carding a hand through Sherlock's curls to soothe the ache of denial that floods the genius boy's features immediately. "I told you; we need to go slow. This is important to me. _You_ are important to me."

The blush rushes back in full force but those ethereal eyes seem incapable of freeing themselves from John's gaze as Sherlock stares up at him, looking so soft and rather shocked and, fuck, _happy_ as he lets John's words wash through him, a tiny shiver racking his frame like his body is unsure how to react to whatever emotion is currently surging through his system.

And Christ Almighty does John _adore_ this boy.

He adores every sodding inch of Sherlock Holmes.

He adores that big beautiful brain inside Sherlock's head, he adores those ridiculous curls hanging in his eyes that hold ever-changing irises so beautiful John could write songs about them. And John adores the way Sherlock's inexperienced body, because it is very delightfully clear how inexperienced it is, reacts to his every word. His every touch. The way it ebbs and flows and moves every time John directs any kind of attention to it, shifting and trembling, rising and falling, begging to be caressed and cuddled, needing to be shown just how truly important it is.

John could devote hours to this body beneath him, stroking lovingly along tendons that stand out just a bit too far, tracing patterns along pale skin of a torso, whispering words of affection and passion, promising the stars and the moon and the sun.

And John plans to dedicate hoursupon _hours_ of exactly that.

Just not today.

Not yet.

"Okay," Sherlock manages to agree from a broken breath, still indulging in John's attention on him, nodding dazedly as though he'd agree to practically anything right in this moment if John will continue saying things like that to him.

The floodgates seem to burst open all over again in John's chest and fill his insides with another wave of affection so strong for this boy it almost aches, the sight of him delighting in praises and touches making John want to wrap him back up in the comforter and keep him forever.

He can't help dropping a few more gentle kisses against sweet lips and running a hand up his own rugby jersey and along Sherlock's sternum, just to feel him breathe once, twice, before he's whispering, "Now, up you get. Can't be late for class you know."

Pulling back and crawling out of bed with effort, John slides off the mattress and goes about gathering his things for the showers, picking out his clothes for the day and steadfastly ignoring the precious boy slowly following suite already in full sulk mode, pushing his lower lip out at the loss of warmth and comfort and John and grumbling along as he goes to his own closet, preparing for the day much less efficiently than John.

The urge to grab him by the hips and press him against the wall slams into John like a tackle on the rugby field and he has to close his eyes for a long moment, fingers clenching around the jeans he's holding to focus on the task at hand which is to get out the door and not back into bed.

As much as the notion of leaving Sherlock now hurts, John _knows_ they'd have to leave each other eventually, if not now than later.

Still though.

It fucking _hurts_.

It hurts getting ready to go out and be away from Sherlock Holmes. It hurts having to go sit in a building that doesn't contain Sherlock Holmes and sit at a desk that doesn't also include Sherlock Holmes and interact with other people that aren't Sherlock Holmes.

It _hurts_.

But it's also reality and probably safer this way as it is considering John is getting handsier and gropier and needier the more he gets of his roommate like this and a tiny break is going to be necessary anyway.

It doesn't mean that John likes it.

What John also doesn't like, beyond the fact that Sherlock's lips and body will not be anywhere near him for the better part of a day, is that Sherlock in general will be away from him. And after what happened yesterday, John isn't ashamed to admit that it makes him a little nervous to have Sherlock out of his sight. It sets his teeth on edge a bit, sending Sherlock off into the world unprotected and unguarded.

Considering Victor Trevor is lurking around campus in parts unknown, John doesn't think he can be blamed for being concerned.

And John very much _hates_ that. He hates the idea of not being there, not defending Sherlock at every turn, at every blind corner, which is ridiculous he knows but he can't help the raging beast growling in its cage deep in his chest, prepped and ready to burst free and protect what's his.

Because Sherlock fucking _belongs_ to him now.

Which may sound horribly territorial and possessive and borderline inappropriate to say so soon but John has no intentions of saying it out loud anyway, though the thought still stakes its claim and settles in, having absolutely no intentions of going anywhere.

Sherlock is _his_.

And he is Sherlock's.

And no disgusting human beings named Victor Trevor will be laying a hand on either one them.

Ever.

And with that overprotective thought, another body brushes against John's, shocking him into the present and out of his own consuming thoughts and he takes stock of his surroundings long enough to find himself back in Sherlock's space, the square footage of their room affording little area for them to move around without at least rubbing shoulders, although this time John doesn't think it's an accident and he delights in the fact that he no longer has to tamp down on the little tremors of pleasure that race up his arm at the feeling of Sherlock's skin ghosting over his and before they both fully know what's happening, the rugby player has the genius boy pressed up against his closet door, bodies pushing together, long slender fingers sneaking into blond fringe, tongues twirling around each other like they've been doing this for ages.

It's impossible for John to keep his hands to himself when Sherlock is about to waltz out onto that giant campus, into the hoard of students and out of John's sight, the idea of keeping him locked in this room for the remainder of time a very enticing one. He and the furious brute within him will have to settle for pinning the genius against the door for a moment longer, taste Sherlock one last time before what is most likely going to be a very long day, nipping his lower lip and licking along the backs of his teeth, committing to memory exactly how Sherlock Holmes tastes since he won't be able to double check for an entire school day, savoring every soft exhale and small groan that falls from that gorgeous mouth.

"I better see you back in my bed this evening, Mister Holmes," John teases with only a hint of an edge, pressing his palms flat against the door on either side of Sherlock's head and ghosting his lips along Sherlock's as he speaks. "Don't be getting any ideas about going back to that mattress of yours."

"What about dinner?" Sherlock giggles and squirms, hands trailing down John's flanks and gripping the blond boy's waist, clearly enjoying this little show of dominance and the animal in John crawls back into its cage, certain its territory has officially been reclaimed, even if there was no threat of an overthrow in the first place.

John grins at the sight before him, always a glutton for Sherlock Holmes' laughter, the pink in those sharp cheekbones darkening a shade. "I suppose we can have dinner first. But after that, bed. My bed, specifically."

"Oh fine," Sherlock tries to feign annoyance with a sigh like he's agreeing to do something he doesn't want to but John can hear the ready agreement in his words.

It's a bit tougher to get out the door after that, and even harder not to let panic seep into John's swirling mind as Sherlock Holmes gives him one last heart-wrenchingly beautiful smile as his bids him a nice day, stepping out of the room and out of John's sight before the rugby player can change his mind.

And John tells himself that it'll be fine. That today will be long but it will be event-free and he will get his schoolwork done and go to rugby practice and find Sherlock waiting for him on the sidewalk afterward and all will be right.

It'll be fine.

It'll all be fine.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

It's not fine.

Mobile phone practically becoming one with John's hand as it's been clutched in his digits for almost nine hours and has since laid absolutely silent, it's definitely not fucking _fine_

Not a word.

Not a single fucking word from that genius boy John had been snogging mere hours ago and insanity is starting to settle in.

By 5PM the panic has all but swallowed him whole as John glances stealthily at his phone sitting in his palm for the 90th time as he walks toward the rugby pitch, waiting for the screen to come to life with a text alert from Sherlock Holmes that hasn't come all fucking day.

It's been radio silence from his roommate and John has given a valiant effort not to let it worry the hell out of him but alas, here he walks, practically vibrating out of his skin with the need for his bloody mobile to ring.

John knows this is stupid.

He _knows_ that.

He knows he's completely overreacting, realizes classes take up one's time and schoolwork can be distracting and he _knows_ he's being absurd.

And yet, his brain has decided to all but shut down and zero in on that tiny screen, blocking out professor's lectures and student voices and anything regarding his academic career for the day because Sherlock is somewhere that isn't with John and it's making the rugby player itch for some sort of communication that all is well, that Sherlock is alright and that _they_ are okay.

It's not like they make it a habit to text each other constantly throughout the day usually. It's not a thing they do often and it's a bit silly for John to expect it now.

But the blond boy sort of thought that since last night basically changed fundamentally everything about their relationship that maybe he'd at least get a goddamned _Hello_ over text message from his roommate.

Everything was so blissfully perfect this morning. It's a bit terrifying to think that anything has changed.

Besides, Victor Trevor still haunts the shadows of this campus and John truly has no idea what that prick is capable of but what he does know is if Victor lays a single fucking finger on Sherlock Holmes John is going to _lose it_.

Which is _precisely_ why he caves around 5:01pm, or at least that's what he's telling himself because the deeper truth is just too hard to face right at this tumultuous moment, and shoots off a text of his own, unable to stand the wait any longer, feeling unbelievably stupid for having no self-control, especially considering he'll be seeing the genius in about an hour and half after practice but John has lost all patience and needs a little reassurance.

_How's your day?_

Christ, that was lame but John can't bring himself to care even as a prick of uncertainty pings the base of his skull.

He just needs to know. He needs to know that Sherlock is safe.

The feeling of his phone vibrating in his hand with a text alert freezes John's thoughts in place as he scrambles to slide the locked screen open, palm sweating with anticipation, the sight of his roommate's name lighting up his cellphone such a relief.

_**It's fine. How's yours?** _

John stares at the words written across his screen. Four simple words, no inflection, no suggestion of anything one way or the other. Hardly any information at all.

It makes something niggle in John's stomach uncomfortably and before he knows it, his thoughts have shot off into overreaction and he's helpless to stop it after a day of total silence from Sherlock.

Fine? Oh god, _fine_? Did something happen? What happened? People only say they're fine when they aren't fine, right? Is Sherlock trying to tell him something? That everything _isn't_ fine?

Or is this Sherlock's way of actually saying he's fine? Maybe he really is fine? Maybe everything _is_ fine?

Jesus, John can't think about the word fine any longer, the word no longer holding any meaning in his head but just the garbled sound it's become as he repeats it over and over. He scrubs a hand down his face as his thoughts spin, wishing so much that he'd sent a text similar to something he's texted to Sherlock before so he'd be able to read between the lines and find out what exactly is going through Sherlock's mind and gage any hidden meanings.

Nothing for it now.

 _It's good,_ John begins to tap out in reply, wracking his brain for something longer, something more meaningful, something that could gain him more information besides the fact that Sherlock is alive and perfectly capable of texting. He hesitates over the send button, trying to determine what else to say without seeming like he's prying or give away the fact that he's fretting.

_It's good. Have you seen Irene today?_

That seems relatively harmless, right? Just a simple question. Just inquiring about Sherlock's day. Maybe a little sneaky and hopefully not too obvious. Pressing send without additional thought, John almost tucks his phone back into his pocket, almost afraid to see the response.

Which comes immediately.

_**No. I don't have Chemistry today.** _

Whooshing out a breath he didn't know he was holding and letting a bit of weight drop off of his shoulders, unnecessarily pleased that Sherlock didn't have to go anywhere near Victor today even if it would have been in a room full of people, John offers a small smile down at the device in his hand, fully aware Sherlock can't see him but still hoping he's radiating some sort of warmth through the phone lines. That bastard shouldn't get to even lay eyes on Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't deserve to even breathe the same air as that perfect genius boy.

Taking a long moment to breathe, John is in the process of pushing past almost all of his anxiety for the day when another text alert buzzes against the skin of his hand before he can think of a response, the cloud he's currently floating on still inflated as he reads the message from his roommate.

_**That's what you really wanted to know, right? If I had to see Victor today?** _

Caught red-handed.

Guilt swoops heavily in John's stomach, his ears heating with embarrassment at being called out, having apparently forgotten that Sherlock's bullshit radar is much more refined than most even over text messaging, his sneakiness not holding a candle to that brilliant brain of that genius boy.

Which makes John feel a bit off-kilter as a slow spread of discomfort rides along under his skin, waiting for his mind to catch up with what is so blatantly obvious, the facts falling into a row like a lineup, ticking themselves off as they appear in John's mind's eye.

Sherlock hasn't seen Victor today.

Sherlock hasn't seen Irene today.

Sherlock hasn't texted John all day.

It's not anyone else that has caused the silence previous and now shortness of Sherlock's texts. It's not an outside source that's settled friction in their interactions, albeit not face to face. It's not a third party that's setting off this uneasy feeling like something is definitely wrong.

It's John.

Oh god, it's got to be John that's making Sherlock first mute and now clipped, the unsteadiness in this simple conversation so palpable John can feel his stomach turning itself over, unaware of exactly what's caused this and a bit terrified to find out.

Everything was fine this morning. Everything was perfect this morning.

What has happened since the moment Sherlock left the room?

Unable to back down with fear creeping up his spine that not everything is right with them, John continues this shaky conversation down the course it's taken.

_I'm sorry. I just wanted to make sure all is okay._

_**All is okay, John. I can take care of myself.** _

_I know you can._

He sucks in a breath before typing out a second message, hoping a small jab will loosen the tension in this exchange and get them back on solid ground.

_But you shouldn't always have to shoulder that burden. God knows you're a handful._

_**Thanks for the concern.** _

_Just looking out for you._

_**It's appreciated.** _

The lull in the already stilted conversation makes John's abdomen cramp up a bit in panic, feeling like he's fallen incredibly wrong-footed in this discussion and has absolutely no idea why. Did something happen? Did he unknowingly do something Sherlock is upset about?

It seems unlikely but the proof is in these messages, all short and cold and almost irritated, like John is unnecessarily interrupting Sherlock's day, like hearing from his roommate is some sort inconvenience.

Like Sherlock has no interest in being chatted up by John Watson.

And all the happy bliss that's been slowly ebbing away throughout the day dissipates into nothing, worry and hurt filling its place as John stares down at the phone in his hand, the reality of what appears to be happening slowly crushing him.

Victor Trevor is the perfect villain to their story, the menace in physical form that breathes and talks and damages and is still most definitely out there, lying in wait for his moment to come.

But the other, more prominent, more real threat is the one that John has been avoiding giving a name to all day, the nagging feeling in the back of his mind, the pinprick that stabs the top of his spine with every buzz of his mobile.

The threat that maybe Sherlock feels like last night was a mistake.

That maybe they should just forget it happened.

That maybe he's regretting ever kissing John Watson.

The thought makes the rugby player's throat burn with an ache that's threatening to run bone deep as he racks his recent memory, carding through every touch, every kiss, every moment they'd shared in the past 22 hours, something maybe he'd missed, something showing that Sherlock didn't feel the same, that Sherlock didn't want this, that Sherlock regrets it all.

But he finds nothing.

He can't find a single millisecond where Sherlock wasn't beaming up at him, wasn't opening himself up for more attention, wasn't fully participating in every single moment of their shared night together.

It's like the minute he walked out of their room this morning, the slate was cleaned and everything that had transpired between them no longer exists.

Is that why he's been ignoring John all day long?

Is that why he's being so short now?

Is that really all John gets? One single sodding night?

Christ that is so goddamn _unfair_.

A heaviness settles over John's heart somberly as the thought of no longer having what he'd _only just got_ takes hold of his mind and drags him under, threatening to drown him in the very real possibility that this could be over.

Fucking hell, this… this would change everything.

No more flirting.

No more sleepovers in the same bed.

No more kisses.

No possibilities of _more_.

John isn't sure his weak heart could take it if all that was yanked out from under him now.

No, that's not true. He _is_ sure that he couldn't handle it. He is _positive_ about that.

By the time John arrives at practice, he's fretting so heavily he barely registers anything as he whips out his phone in an attempt to continue some sort of chat with his confusing roommate, the thought of waiting another hour and a half for the fate of his relationship with Sherlock Holmes too much to bear. He wants answers, dammit.

_Preference for dinner?_

It's lame but it will have to do in the short amount of time he has before practice-

_**No.** _

John _growls_ in frustration. Come _on_ , Sherlock.

_I'm in the mood for Italian._

_**Okay.** _

_Or maybe Indian?_

_**Sounds fine.** _

"Jesus Christ," John snaps out loud, eyes glaring daggers into the stupid device in his hand that is currently giving him _nothing_ to work with. Is this really it? Is it really over already? After one single beautiful night together, this is how it ends?

That's so bloody unfair John wants to scream in agony, a dull ache throbbing the back of his throat with unshed tears, unable to comprehend that he'd stupidly thought he'd actually gotten everything he'd wanted only for it to be snatched away from him barely a day later.

What the _hell_ happened? What is going on? Why has Sherlock suddenly decided-

"JOHN WATSON! EARTH TO JOHN WATSON!"

Snapping his head up so hard it hurts a bit, John finds three sets of eyes boring into him intently, Paul, Mike and Greg all blinking at him, each stare looking somewhere between worried and annoyed.

"Er - hello," John says formally as his brows draw together in confusion, the scrutiny feeling like the weight of a bolder as his thoughts are still wholly focused on the cell in his hand.

"We've been saying your name for like thirty seconds, mate," Paul huffs indignantly. "I realize your phone is very important but I'd argue that Sherlock's well-being is a bit more so, yeah?"

"Yeah," Mike agrees with a serious nod, eyes widening a fraction. "Come on, the Task Force needs an update."

Oh shit.

Shame clenches John's gut as the words roll off Mike's tongue, the realization that his vague text message last night that he'd shot off pretty haphazardly in his haste to get into bed so he could then invite his gorgeous roommate into it may not have been quite enough of an explanation for his teammates who he now realizes must have been worried sick.

"Which, by the way," Mike points his finger in John's direction, "I'm a bit offended that I didn't get invited onto this task force of yours. Like what the hell?"

"You were with Sherlock when we formed it," Paul waves his hand dismissively, expectant gaze still on John. "Besides, I told you everything that was going on."

"Yeah but there was _spying_ and stuff!" Mike grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. "I am positive that I could have been an excellent spy. Woulda been nice to be included."

"Oh stop it, you were included," Greg rolls his eyes. "You're here now, aren't you?"

Mike perks up a bit at that. "True." His gaze snaps back to John's, all traces of irritation vanishing, genuine concern taking its place. "So? Sherlock?"

Swallowing thickly as panic surges up into his throat and clogs his airways, John really has no idea what to say. So much has happened in the past day, bad things then good things then _amazing_ things and now maybe bad things again and John isn't even sure if these good and amazing things count since they may be over as quickly as they started. And now here his wonderful teammates and friends stand, worrying over his roommate for godsake and John can't even muster up a proper response because he doesn't have one. He doesn't even know what's going on.

"Oh yeah yeah, no Sherlock is good. Fine. Good and fine," John splutters idiotically, face heating as his words tumble out choppily.

Greg raises a brow in frustration, eyes narrowing into a glare as he says, "Myc is going to lose his shit if I tell him about this and don't give him more information than Sherlock is 'Good and fine.' Seriously, is he alright? Nothing happened with Victor, right?"

"No, no nothing like that," John replies hastily with a shake of his hand and even to his own ears he knows he sounds cryptic and odd but he really can't form a sentence right now about anything that happened earlier than _Wh-What are you doing?_ considering after that mainly consisted of kissing Sherlock Holmes like his life depended on it. "He's a bit shaken up. Victor didn't get his hands on him but he said some pretty cruel stuff. But he's okay."

"Thank god," Mike nods seriously, apparently missing the deer-in-headlights vibe John is giving off in waves. "That fucking prick better keep his distance."

"No shit," Paul agrees wholeheartedly. "He better not so much as look in Sherlock's direction." He turns his gaze to John again, eyes wide and round and full of honesty. "I moved out of there by the way, Johnny. Packed my shit and left. I don't want to be any part of that."

"He's rooming with me now for the time being," Mike chimes in with a nod to Paul. "We're all keeping away from that sick fuck."

"Thanks guys, really," John offers in return though it sounds mild and pathetic to his own ears, though he may have gotten away with it if it weren't for the captain of their rugby team staring intently at John, making no move to hop onto the Kill Victor Trevor conversation and instead zeroing in on his friend, gaze evaluating and quizzical, tracing every crease in John's features like some sort of silent interrogation and John knows he's in for questioning.

Clearly someone has picked up a few tricks of his own while spending time with Holmes the elder.

"We still need to keep an eye out though," Greg warns, eyes flicking over John carefully, clearly noting he's not getting the whole story, though still in the dark about which story he should actually be getting.

And John wishes he could tell them. Wishes he could fill them in, wishes he could explain all about the miracle of kissing Sherlock Holmes and how utterly incredible the night before was but at the present he has no idea what's actually going on or where he stands with his roommate and he'd like to sort that out before he goes spilling his guts to his teammates.

"On it, Cap," Mike nods. "At least now we don't need to worry about Sherlock walking directly into the lion's den though."

"Seriously," Paul rejoins, shaking his head. "We'll keep him safe, Johnny. It'll be easier this time around since Sherlock now knows he's the bad guy."

And John would be more grateful for their conviction if it weren't for the nagging feeling in the back of John's mind that something is very wrong in his situation with Sherlock. Something he needs to sort out before he can say much more.

He tries to nod in appreciation but Greg, for his part, is having none of it.

"Everything alright, mate?"

"Yeah, 'm good," John turns back to his captain with a quick nod and a tight smile, hoping maybe the pressing matter of practice will make this inquiry short and sweet. "Just, you know, long night and all that."

"You sure?" Greg's brows are creased in genuine worry.

The other two teammates turn back to John, both gazes considering their friend.

"What?" Mike presses, seeming to suddenly notice the tension in John's shoulders and glancing between his captain and his teammate. "What is it?"

"John?" Paul asks.

Coughing uncomfortably and trying not to squirm, John attempts a shrug of nonchalance. "Nothing guys, really, sorry, I -… just ah, bit distracted is all."

The blood promptly drains from Greg's features, his inquisitive gaze from earlier finally voicing itself, uneasiness etched in his face as he grows even more serious. "John," he says in an almost warning tone. "Did something happen yesterday? With… with Sherlock? Because you can tell us you know-"

" _No_ ," John emphasizes with a hasty shake of his head, remorse coloring his words, feeling completely awful for making them worry for Sherlock's safety because John is acting like a complete knob. "I swear, he's-… Sherlock is fine. Really, he is."

 _I think anyway_ , he tacks on silently, honestly unsure where Sherlock's state of well-being is at, though he feels confident Victor Trevor is not currently playing a role in it.

"So what then?" Greg only calms a fraction, still staring intently at his teammate. "You're acting really strange, John."

"You can tell us, you know," Paul adds, his face softening in understanding. "I know it's tough, trust me I do get that, you know I do. But whatever it is, maybe we can help?"

"We just want to know everything's okay," Mike tacks on, and John isn't sure he's ever seen his teammates look so truly alarmed as they do now, all offering their help so selflessly while John swirls around his own head like a self-absorbed arsehole.

"Look, I… I'll tell you later, okay?" John says firmly, bordering on a hysterical plea as his separate emotions toward all the different people in his life begin to collide. "Sherlock is fine and safe, I promise you he is, there is just some, er-, things we need to work out and-"

"What things?" Greg shoots back with a step forward, followed by Mike and Paul, closing in around John like a protective knot, offering assistance and friendship and anything John may need like the incredibly kind people that they are. "Come on, Johnny, Sherlock is practically my family, if there is something wrong you need to-"

"I kissed him."

It snaps free from his mouth, unbidden by any conscious thought before he can stop it and he regrets the words immediately, feeling completely foolish for being so blunt with something that is far more complicated at the moment than those three words imply.

Momentarily startled by the admission, all three members of his group stare blankly for a long, unbearably silent second.

Greg is the first to recover with a slow twist of his lips into a sly, knowing grin, features glowing so brightly you'd think he was the one that had just kissed his longtime crush. "Ho-ly fuck," he smirks, eyes bright and teasing and full of excitement.

"Yes!" Mike is the second one to come to, fist pumping into the air like he does when someone scores a goal during a rugby game, face splitting into a wide smile. "Fucking _finally_!"

"Well shit mate, I didn't know if you had it in you or not for how long you waited," Paul teases, his own happiness for his teammate coming through like sunshine in his eyes. "Congratulations!"

"It's a goddamn _miracle_ ," Greg, for his part, is grinning like a maniac, looking pleased as fucking punch, entirely unaware that John's world isn't quite as cut and dry as _yes we kissed_ at the moment.

"Yeah well-" John tries, scrubbing a hand through his hair, scrambling to find an explanation to explain the complexity of the situation without sounding like a pathetic twat. "It may not be as simple as that."

All three boys practically bouncing on the balls of their feet in quiet celebration and support falter at once, like John's admission has doused cold water over their good moods and John hates himself for it.

"What do you mean?" Mike prompts with a frown. "Seems pretty simple to me. Wasn't Sherlock just over the moon? He's crazy about you, you know."

Even with all the current unknowns surrounding his situation with Sherlock, Mike's words still warm something soft and tender in John's chest, remembering exactly how Sherlock had clung to him the night before, had gone back in for kiss after kiss, had wanted John near him as much as John had needed Sherlock.

The hope that wells up inside him makes him a bit light-headed, optimistically hoping today was just some fluke, that maybe Sherlock wasn't feeling particularly chatty and when John sees him after practice it'll all be like it was this morning.

It seems too easy but John holds onto that hope like a lifeline, silently thanking his wonderful teammates for lifting his spirits even the tiniest bit.

"Things have been… off today," John tries to explain without going into too much detail. "I've hardly heard a word from him and when we did chat briefly he seemed… distant."

The three boys regard him for a long moment, silently watching and, apparently, waiting. "And?" Paul prompts with a wave of his hand.

John falters on his next words, unsure how to proceed. "And… it's just- it just feels off. It was so simple last night and even this morning and now I'm not so sure."

None of his friends look quite as worried as John feels, in fact the three of them seem to exchange a silent conversation amongst themselves, eyeing each other knowingly with tiny smirks and glittering eyes like there is some private joke being passed around that John isn't privy to. "What?" he demands, a bit irritated at the mockery.

"John," Greg replies calmly with a look of incredulity. "We're talking about _Sherlock_ here. Sherlock Holmes. You know him, yeah? You know all about his little quirks and his giant brain and-"

"Yes," John cuts him off with an irritated huff. "And?"

"And you really thought things would be _simple_ with him?"

Frowning around his small group, John says, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means it's been a _day_ , Johnny," Mike grins like John is just precious for being so completely dim. "One single day. Give him a minute, yeah? He probably needs to process all this."

"I have a sneaky feeling it takes Sherlock longer than a few hours to properly wrap his head around a new relationship," Paul nods in agreement.

"His _first_ relationship," Greg corrects with a wink in John's direction. "Poor bloke probably doesn't know what to do with himself. I'm almost positive when you get home tonight things will be completely fine."

Blinking for a long moment as the information he's just received pours over him, it doesn't take long before John's world is flipped once again.

Jesus Christ.

They're right.

All three of them are so bloody right John wants to simultaneously hug them for knocking some sense into him and ring their damn necks for being smarter in this situation than he is.

"I-… yeah," he concedes with a nod, feeling unbelievably foolish for not realizing this in the first place. "Yeah. You guys are right."

"We know," Mike agrees with a smirk. "But I'll bet you by the weekend things will be right as rain. In fact, you ought to bring him 'round to the party on Saturday night after the game. For celebratory drinks!"

"You and your drinks," Paul rolls his eyes fondly as they make their way over to the bench to get their gear on for practice. "You find any excuse to celebrate, don't you?"

"Of course!" Mike shoots back and the banter continues as their voices fade out of John's ears, the blond boy refocusing down at the mobile in his hand, still utterly thrown by the coldness of his supposed partner now but feeling a bit more centered about the situation. Maybe he is overreacting. Maybe the boys are right.

Maybe Sherlock will be completely perfect by the time he walks up the path along the rugby field.

"Focus on practice now and get your mind off Sherlock for a bit," Greg nudges him. "I'm sure it'll be great when you see him after."

And John takes his advice, deciding to throw all his worry and panic and anxiety into his game, taking his thoughts off the beautiful genius boy driving him insane for a full 90 minutes.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Things, however, turn yet again when Sherlock is not on the path beside the field after practice. He's not lingering shyly or pretending not to be watching or trying to appear like he'd just happened to take this way back to the dorms.

He's nowhere to be found.

And John's heart droops just a bit more in his chest.

What is going on?

What has he missed so spectacularly?

Why is this fragile thing between them seemingly over before it even began?

Shoving his things into his bag hastily and waving off his teammates ribbing him about his urgency, John hustles up the hill and across the road to his dorm room, attempting to calm his pounding heart that has nothing to do with the sprints he'd just completed.

Pushing open the front doors of the building and hustling down the hallway, John all but dives for his dorm door, throwing it open, holding his breath as to what may be inside, the very real fear of Sherlock not being there consuming his thoughts, the swirling panic of what that could mean threatening to swallow him whole as he rushes inside, the calm from his chat with his teammates from early completely gone and worry crashing in on all sides.

However there, in his chair, at his desk hunched over his laptop and the plethora of tubes and papers and books that always seem to be scattered about in a particular sort of chaos, is the boy who has been driving John absolutely mad all day long, the strap of his goggles pulled tight against his curls, flinging them out in every direction wildly, fingers tapping away at the keyboard of his computer.

There's an overwhelming urge to rush over and wrap him up in a cuddle because the sight of him doing something so standard as experimenting in their room makes John's heart settle in his chest, calming his racing nerves to a slow jog, hope rising within him that maybe all is not actually lost.

Until he notices that Sherlock has gone rigid at the sound of the doorknob turning, hands freezing over rattling keys and John's hope plummets to the floor, the sight of a wide-eyed, terrified looking boy whipping himself around to level a gaze at John in the doorway, beautiful green eyes seeming somehow larger behind plastic goggle frames, gentle lips that John now knows the taste of parted in shock.

The click of the door closing behind him is loud in John's ears as silence falls over the two blokes staring uncomfortably at each other, neither one of them daring to move, neither one of them having any idea how to proceed.

They stay that way for a long moment, both breathing soundlessly, watching the other.

It is so unbelievably awkward John starts to fidget with the door handle still grasped in his hand, feeling completely foolish for rushing home like this so intensely eager only to find the person he's so eager to see isn't nearly as thrilled to see him and all of his fears come creeping back up his neck, the worry spreading to his nerves and making his palms sweat.

Maybe it really is over.

Maybe Sherlock is trying to find a way right now to tell the rugby player that he actually doesn't want-

"John."

Long slender fingers twitch from where they're wrapped around the back of the chair and John catches the movement before snapping his gaze up at the sound of his name falling breathlessly from his roommate's perfect mouth and after that it seems utterly ridiculous that he'd hesitated at all in the first place.

They meet in the middle, Sherlock rocketing out of his chair, John pushing off the doorframe, rugby bag falling to the floor, goggles pushed up and into messy curls and then it seems like John's hands take on a life of their own, laying themselves flat against the genius boy's cheeks, middle fingers aligning along a defined jawline, thumbs stroking over achingly sharp cheekbones, dragging Sherlock in as close as possible as nimble fingers find their way to John's hips and grip hard, the curly-haired boy clinging to John like a lifeline.

And the passed nine hours of terror slowly recede into something else entirely, something soft and quiet, something gentle and calm as John finds Sherlock's mouth and slips his tongue between his teeth, holding him tightly, unwilling to let him go, after the inner turmoil he'd been through the entire day he won't be letting Sherlock go, not for anything.

There are no hellos, no exchanging of pleasantries, only body against body, breath against breath, feeling each other, remembering each other after so many hours away, which should be bloody ridiculous but it feels completely important, this thing between them still so new and so delicate and any time apart feels like eternity. The tall body against John's seems to sag into him in relief at his touch, Sherlock sighing into the long lingering kiss they're sharing like he's remembering how to breathe again and John is positive he's not doing much better.

"I missed you all day," John whispers into the space between their lips as he pulls back, tilts his head and goes back in, ensuring he's kissing Sherlock Holmes as thoroughly as possible.

"Me too," Sherlock squirms closer somehow, gripping tighter at John's words, entire body responding enthusiastically.

Sliding fingers into dark curls at the back of Sherlock's head, John trails a line of kisses along the genius boy's jaw until he can bury his face in Sherlock's gorgeous neck, pressing the palm of his hand to Sherlock's lower back and simply holding him close, breathing him in, letting his scent and his presence surround John until his world rights itself again, the last few tumultuous hours enough to throw him completely off balance.

"What were you doing all day?" John tries not to demand, the feeling of Sherlock's breath against his neck soothing and tantalizing all at once, enough to take the bite right out of his words, forcing them out breathlessly just shy of a moan.

"Class," Sherlock murmurs back, clearly just as hesitant to break the intimacy of this moment, still gripping John by the hips, the tip of his nose skimming just below John's jawline as he drops a kiss under his ear. "Obviously."

"You couldn't send me a quick text?" John whispers, nuzzling into Sherlock's collarbone and stroking fingers through his curls. "I like to know you're okay, you know."

"I knew you were busy," Sherlock replies quietly, breathe hitching at the feeling of John's tongue tracing along his tendons, angling his head further away to give John better access. "You didn't need to be worrying about me."

Grinning against that delicate porcelain-like skin, John growls in response, "What if I wanted to be worrying about you?"

"Well I – _oh_ ," Sherlock's words stutter and tip into a lingering moan at the feeling of John's tongue dipping into his ear, tiny gooseflesh bumps rippling out along his skin under John's fingers where they dance along his neck.

"You what?" John teases, closing his lips around a soft earlobe and reveling in the answering groan coming from that adorable cupid's bow of a mouth.

"I – I…" Sherlock tries and fails to explain, panting quietly and wrapping his arms further around John's waist to keep him near. "I didn't… I didn't want to burden you – _god_."

"You are never a burden," John whispers in his ear, dropping a gentle kiss just below Sherlock's ear and nuzzling his nose there for a moment, just needing to hold him for a bit, remember that this is real, that it's them now, the two of them against the rest of the world. "Don't ever think that you're a burden."

The genius in his arms is quiet for a moment, slender fingers finding their way up John's spine in a smooth caress. "I suppose I was unclear on the dynamics of… _this_ … outside our room."

" _This_?" John laughs, pulling back long enough to plant a kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "'This' meaning our relationship?"

The blush creeps up the genius boy's neck immediately, a deep red coloring his cheeks and making his gorgeous blue eyes impossibly bright. "Yes," he attempts to snark with a glare but the effect is hindered heavily by the flush tinting his face.

Giggling and brushing a thumb along a rosy cheekbone, John can't keep the smile off his face, watching his pretty boyfriend blush heavily when confronted directly about what they are to each other so utterly precious it makes John warm all over. "The dynamic," John teases, "is that we're together. And we can bloody well text message all fucking day when we're away from each other because I hate being away from you and those short little messages I was getting from you earlier just aren't going to cut it for me."

"Well I wasn't sure what you were doing," Sherlock mutters argumentatively, dropping his eyes to his feet, though he stays close to John, seeming equally unwilling to move away as John is. "I was trying not to interrupt."

"You love interrupting me when I'm home with you," John replies with a grin, tucking a stray curl behind Sherlock's ear. "Which is completely fine by the way. It's also fine when we're apart. Please interrupt me at any point during the day. All day long, preferably. Your interruptions are the best kinds."

"I was trying to be considerate," Sherlock shoots back, lips twitching as he attempts to school them into angrily pursing. "Isn't that what people do in relationships?"

"Yes, but they also text message each other incessantly," John counters with a brow raise. "They text about nothing and everything and it's obnoxious to everyone else around them but it doesn't matter because they want to talk to each other all the time."

"What is it with you and text messages?" Sherlock sighs in exasperation, though John can see the glow in his eyes at being given permission to talk to John when they're apart.

"Like I said," John leans in for another kiss, lingering over soft lips for a long moment before whispering, "I hate being away from you. Hearing from you during the day would help."

"Well I suppose I can accommodate that," Sherlock whispers back and they stay that way for a long moment.

And later, John will realize exactly why Sherlock had been so short with him over text and what exactly he'd meant by 'dynamics'. He'll realize precisely why Sherlock had been hesitant and unsure and maybe a little worried. He'll sort out exactly what is going on in that big, beautiful brain of Sherlock Holmes.

And John knows exactly how he's going to rectify the situation.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

It's been 5 days, 23 hours and just about 23 minutes since John Watson first kissed Sherlock Holmes in the privacy of their bedroom, away from prying eyes, hidden behind the four walls of their dorm, no one watching, no one judging, no one _knowing_ what they were becoming to each other.

No one knowing that John Watson has since kissed Sherlock Holmes so many times the genius boy has lost count, unable to figure out how exactly to keep track when John's kisses sometimes land on his cheek or his neck or, _Christ,_ his ear, sometimes pausing active snogging to whisper words into their mingling breath, sometimes gentling away to fall asleep. How does one count kisses? It's damn near _impossible_.

And no one knows how John touches Sherlock. How he holds him close every chance he gets, how he cards fingers through Sherlock's messy curls and runs a strong hand down the center of his back. How the muscles of his arms shift under Sherlock's grasp, how his eyelashes flutter whenever Sherlock licks along his collarbone. How John's favorite position to sleep in is on his back with Sherlock's head resting on his chest where he can easily access the genius boy's curls. How soft John is in the morning light, always smiling at Sherlock as he wakes, always reaching for him first thing.

No one knows any of this.

And Sherlock _hates_ it.

He hates that no one knows, that no one has a goddamn _clue_ exactly what he and John are to each other.

No one knows he belongs to John Watson.

No one knows John Watson belongs to him.

And that is simply _intolerable_.

Everyone should know. Everyone should be well aware of who and what they are to each other and everyone should get to see the way John touches and holds and reaches for Sherlock, the way he slides an arm around his waist or soothes a hand through his hair, how at random intervals he kisses Sherlock's cheeks and has a grin ready for him at all times. People should fucking _know_.

But no one knows. No one knows because it's only been five days and all of their interactions happen within their room while they're alone and Sherlock isn't exactly sure what the rules are here.

And it's completely ridiculous how badly Sherlock wants it. He wants people to see them, he wants people to know. He wants it so badly it aches. It's been five fucking days and it's all he can _think about_.

Well.

Maybe that's not necessarily true. There are lots of things he can't stop himself from thinking of. Like John's soft blue eyes staring down at him. John's short fingers wrapping up in his curls. John's smile every time he's able to get Sherlock to moan or groan or whimper. Those things are equally important to the taking this relationship public thing.

It doesn't make the want of going public any less prevalent. It still weighs heavily on his chest, makes the genius boy a little crazy with how badly he wishes John would take him out and show everyone who they are to each other and take the pressure of the unknown off Sherlock's shoulders because he has absolutely no idea how to handle this.

Of course, Sherlock can't actually say any of this.

Sherlock can't ask this or expect this of John in public because who the hell knows _how_ John wants to handle things in public. Because up until right this very moment they haven't fucking _been in public_. Since getting together, because John insists they are now together, Sherlock has not actually seen John outside of their dorm room until earlier today at the rugby game. Which was essentially a bust considering Sherlock had been so nervous he'd bolted as the final whistle blew, unable to stomach what it would be like seeing John in view of the entire rugby team and all its fans, too terrified of having their perfect happy little bubble burst wide open with something as ugly as reality, too scared to find out that maybe John is very different in a public setting and being together out in the real world means something entirely unlike what they are in private.

Sherlock doesn't think John would be outright cruel or rude to him if they interacted out in the view of others. But he doubts very much that John would be his kind, warm, loving, private self like he is when they're alone. Sherlock is almost positive John would be friendly and lovely as always but he wouldn't be Sherlock's John. Not in front of everyone.

And Sherlock doesn't think his heart could take it. Being that close to John and being unable to reach for him or hold his hand or stare at him because Sherlock has taken to staring like a besotted lunatic at John in the privacy of their room now that he's allowed to look openly and John always lets him, never saying a word, simply gazing in response, big blue eyes all soft, pink lips tilted in the sweetest of smiles, happy to look and be looked at in return.

But the real world is a whole different game altogether and Sherlock is scared to death of it.

Besides, it's not like John has ever said specifically one way or the other. He's never stated the particulars of how things should be once they left the safety of their shared room. He's never laid any ground rules, set any boundaries, given any instructions. He's left Sherlock entirely in the dark. They've already fumbled through their first day apart with, from the look on John's face when he'd flown into the room all breathless and bright eyed and panicked, several bumps because apparently Sherlock was supposed to be texting John all day long which he'd avoided at all costs for fear of misstepping in unfamiliar territory.

He hadn't known what was expected so he hadn't done anything at all.

Better to be safe than sorry, he'd decided.

Which is why now, as they make their way to the weekly party that is always thrown after games no matter if the team wins or loses, his hands are shoved deep in his pockets, his thoughts doing their damnedest to remain absolutely neutral and his gaze set firmly ahead as he strolls along at John's side. Normally, Sherlock is thrilled for these get togethers, loving the comradery of the rugby team who has been rather accepting of him, anticipating the rush of winning Beer Pong with Mike by his side, the excitement of John's eyes on him the entire night. It's usually his favorite night of the week.

Tonight, however, feels very different.

Sherlock had actually not really wanted to attend but it was something he simply couldn't get out of it. He couldn't say no to brilliant cobalt eyes staring up at him hopefully, promising lots of Beer Pong and lots of snogging after if Sherlock wins for the rugby player and how could Sherlock say no to that round precious face?

He couldn't, is the answer.

So now here they are, walking straight into foreign terrain, though the pressure is eased a bit by the fact that Greg Lestrade is walking over with them, the two rugby players deep in conversation about the game leaving Sherlock to his own devices and raging internal thoughts and panic, silently following at John's side but keeping a good distance away, careful not to touch him or breathe him in because John's scent is intoxicating and smelling him would only lead to touching him which would only lead to other things that Sherlock is 98.9% sure aren't appropriate in public.

So. Eyes ahead, thoughts in check, hands in pockets. Good.

Sherlock barely registers arriving at the front door of Mike's, and apparently now Paul's, front door, nodding politely and silently at some random drunk bloke opening the door for them, grinning wetly up at them as they make their way in. It's not dissimilar to that first party John had dragged Sherlock to, although Mike's bright face had been the one to meet them at the door and Sherlock hadn't been snogging John Watson an hour earlier like he had been this evening.

It's throwing Sherlock a bit off, the familiarity and yet _un_ familiarity. It's all off.

The usual whoops and hollered hellos echo along the inside of the room as they enter and Sherlock nods his own greeting, avoiding eye contact as best he can even as Mike stumbles toward them already a bit drunk and Paul steadies him at the elbow with a laugh while the rest of the rugby team crowds around them, already planning to slip away unnoticed, maybe grab a beer and hide out until Mike wants to play Beer Pong, feeling off-kilter and uneasy.

John Watson, however, seems to have a different plan in mind.

A hand is quietly tugging at the cuff of his sleeve and Sherlock turns back to the boy at his side, finding John isn't looking at him but is actively removing Sherlock's hand from his jeans pocket delicately, lifting at his forearms and pulling it free. The genius watches stupidly as his slender fingers appear and then-

"Boys," John nods in greeting before turning to grin up into his roommate's eyes, simultaneously lacing their fingers together in such an achingly familiar and intimate way like they've done every night in bed for the last six nights, and tucking their joined hands between their bodies. "You all remember my boyfriend Sherlock, yeah?"

There is movement in front of him, lots of movement, certainly accompanied by loud whoops and cheers but Sherlock hears none of it, not a single bit, his eyes still locked on the smaller hand wrapped around his, holding onto him, holding him together as far as the genius is concerned and it's everything.

Christ, being in public with John, holding hands with John, being called John Watson's boyfriend, it is _everything_.

The hand in his shifts and tugs a bit and Sherlock glances up to find John smiling warmly at him, blue eyes bright with a fondness Sherlock is so used to seeing in the privacy of their bedroom he's a bit startled by the affect it has on him out in a public setting.

The blond boy gripping his hand raises an eyebrow questioningly. _Alright?_

The spin his heart does in his chest makes Sherlock a little dizzy as he nods a yes in return, so utterly besotted with this beautiful brilliant idiot who has fundamentally changed his entire world in the span of a few short months, this completely perfect boy who wants Sherlock Holmes as his both in private and public, who kisses him so spectacularly and smiles at him so sweetly and takes care of him.

Jesus, Sherlock Holmes may just be-

The warmth of the hand in his is suddenly gone and the noise of his surroundings comes rushing back into his ears on all sides and he's just about to furiously rip someone a new one for cutting off his moment with John when he realizes arms are around his waist and his feet are off the ground.

Glancing down to find himself met with the top of Mike Stamford's head, Sherlock's vision blurs as Mike cheers, "Welcome to the family, son!" like a lunatic, swinging Sherlock around in a circle and the genius boy just catches sight of John clutching his stomach with laughter as his drunken teammate throws his boyfriend around in celebration.

It's absurd and ridiculous and embarrassing and so damn _wonderful_ , Sherlock can't help himself as he smiles and giggles and finally has to pry himself out of Mike's grip only to find John right at his side, taking his hand again and leading him over to get drinks, planting a kiss to Sherlock's cheek as he hands him his beer and tossing his head back with a laugh as Sherlock blushes.

And later on, as Mike is pouring beer into red cups and Sherlock is shaking out his hand in preparation for some serious Pong playing, still feeling like he's floating along in a happy bubble, he catches the gaze of that beautiful blond rugby player he lives with as John grins at him over the rim of his beer bottle, dropping a wink at Sherlock before going back to the conversation he's having with Greg. That beautiful idiot who has been nothing short of a miracle in Sherlock's life, casually taking a moment out of his discussion with a teammate to remind Sherlock how important he is. That beautiful _beautiful_ idiot who is slowly but surely becoming Sherlock's whole world.

And the thought crashes into him without any preamble whatsoever, consuming him wholly within a moment, taking him over entirely and changing his life forever.

_I think I'm falling in love with that beautiful idiot. And it's bloody terrifying._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty so first off: I AM SO SORRY THAT THIS CHAPTER TOOK A LIFETIME TO POST! Things in real life have been a little hectic and crazy but I am hoping to get back to posting every few weeks again! I appreciate your patience with the wait and I am sorry again! 
> 
> Second off: THANK YOU FOR READING! 
> 
> Third off: SMUT IS A-COMIN FOLKS! I PROMISE!
> 
> We're having a constant lovefest on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come join in! XO!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Once again, a big giant ridiculous THANK YOU to ishaveforsherl for sticking this out with me, supporting me when I thought I couldn't write anymore, cheering me on when I finally reopened my word document, and generally being the best friend anyone could ever ask for! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH! Also thank you to awkwardtiming for making me write almost every night of the week and keeping me motivated! XOXOX_  

_Gay Relationship 101: How to Make Him Swoon_

_This is What You Learn In Your First Gay Relationship_

_Common Relationship Mistakes Gay Men Make_

_Tips on How to be a Good Boyfriend_

_Gay Relationship Tips: The Secret to a Good Relationship_

_30 Ways To Be A Better Boyfriend to Your Man_

 

That last one has got to be a goddamn _goldmine_ right?

Thirty ways to be a great boyfriend.

Thirty options on how to become the very _best_ boyfriend.

Good.

Thirty is an excellent number. Thirty gives him lots of options.

Continuing to scroll through a master list of articles he himself has been cultivating for the last several days and saved into no particular order, Sherlock leans closer to his laptop perched on his desk in his dorm room and reads every title and introduction again in each article very carefully, copying and pasting links to another spreadsheet that he's deemed actually useful, gathering all the data before beginning to sift through it page by page, word by word, because Sherlock is nothing if not thorough and he needs this information. He needs _all_ of this information.

Because, frankly, he's going to need all the help he can get.

It's been two weeks.

Two beautifully long weeks of kisses and cuddles and _this is my boyfriend, Sherlock_ s and soft smiles and Sherlock is in paradise. Sherlock is so bloody happy he isn't quite sure what to do with himself, feeling like he could practically burst at any moment and flood the entire campus with every little thing he feels for John Watson. It's been two perfect weeks of being a boyfriend and having a boyfriend and Sherlock honestly isn't sure why everyone on this earth hasn't gone out and found themselves a John Watson because John Watson is breathtakingly perfect and it's impossible not to fall quite spectacularly in love with him.

The heart in his chest that's been constantly thrumming with a quietly deep affection for the blond boy living in his room kicks itself up a notch at the mere thought of the last two weeks and what they've done to the poor genius boy and Sherlock can't help but smile to himself where he sits at his desk in their room, pouring over his list and attempting to decipher which bits of information of all these pieces is the most important when considering how exactly he is going to go about keeping John.

Because Sherlock Holmes has big plans to _keep_ John Watson.

Somehow, in some unknown, unforeseen, bloody wonderful way, Sherlock has managed to not only get John's romantic attention but hold it without doing much more than being himself and while that's all well and good, it can't possibly last forever. And Sherlock wants that. Sherlock wants _forever_. Because somewhere along the way, that gorgeous blond rugby player has become imperative in Sherlock's world and the thought of not having him around for the rest of his days is not only unacceptable but entirely intolerable to even consider.

Therefore, Sherlock must master the art of being a significant other.

And so here he sits, gathering relative data on how to not only keep John Watson interested and content but so much more than that. Sherlock has got to keep John Watson _happy_. Sherlock has got to make that boy feel like the incredible human being that he is all day every day. Sherlock has got to make him see how important he is. Sherlock has got to make him know that he is completely and utterly perfect. John deserves to feel all the things he makes Sherlock experience every day.

John deserves the goddamn _world_.

Of course, the curly-haired boy is well aware that this relationship cannot continue to thrive on takeaway and heavy snogging and occasional party appearances, although all of the above is positively delightful. No, this relationship needs more. John Watson _deserves_ more.

And so Sherlock is going to make sure to give it to him.

He continues to read and obsess over every word as he clicks on article after article, attempting to parse out which pieces of information will be most useful to him considering the majority of the data in many of these pieces are basically generic ideas rather than actual solid advice.

_Be good to your man and he'll be good to you!_

_Always make sure to make your boyfriend feel loved!_

_Show him what he means to you!_

People are morons.

Who doesn't know these things already? Who isn't doing these things? Who needs this type of advice?

It's as annoying as it is stupid but Sherlock continues to scroll, hoping some random brilliance will jump right out from his computer and hand him the key to unlocking the secret of how to be the perfect boyfriend to John Watson, yet these articles seem less interested in that and more interested in dim-witted drivel for idiots who clearly have no business being in a relationship if they need this type of advice.

Clicking off the most recent disappointing article with a huff, Sherlock navigates his way to the next site he'd saved, only to find this one filled with less advice and more personal stories, including information on the actual event and recommending actions to very specific scenarios. Finding several of them not only useless but also highly unlikely ( _If you burn the dinner you've cooked for your honey, don't panic! Light some candles, order delivery and snuggle up on the couch with a movie. Your cutie will love the intimacy and forget all about your silly mistake!_ \- ugh) Sherlock's eyes scroll downward, skimming and skipping those circumstances he doubts he will ever be in until his gaze runs across a story he still isn't sure applies to him but finds himself reading anyway.

**#4) When another dude checks you out, grab your man and start kissing him.**   
_I once dated a guy who was a million times hotter than me, and believe me, everyone checked him out. One night we were out at a bar and super hottie would not stop staring at him from across the room (one of many). I started to get a little weird because it was so obvious, but you know what he did? He stared back at him, then, in a swift confident move, pulled me in and gave me the sexiest kiss you can imagine. Afterwards, he looked back at the guy, who at this point knew he was part of the joke, and kept his arm around me the rest of the night. I never felt so validated!_

A heat he wasn't expecting creeps up the back of his neck as he reads the words, fingertips settled against his lips as he scans the passage again, swallowing hard around a dry throat as he pictures this scene in his head. Only in this version, John is the hot boyfriend being checked out severely and Sherlock is the uncomfortable partner at his side.

Christ, what he wouldn't give to have John kiss him like that in front of an obviously interested party. How sexy that would be, being shown off in public like that, being claimed like that. Being shown off to the world as John Watson's.

It's a bit silly, daydreaming about such a specific scenario, one Sherlock can't actually picture happening in real life since, frankly, he'd gotten something pretty damn close a few weeks ago when John introduced him to the rugby boys as his boyfriend, but still, it stirs something low in his belly, something that's been getting gradually less dormant since John Watson entered his world and flipped it on its head and Sherlock grits his teeth as the early stages of an erection threaten to tighten his trousers.

Which is _absurd_.

Sherlock should have better control over this, of that he is certain, but it's only gotten progressively worse. He's gotten used to the constant ache, of the steady thump in his abdomen, of the whispered _slow_ John had spoken so many nights previous and he'd felt like it had been working. He'd felt like he had it completely handled. He'd felt like he could take everything as slow as John wished and be perfectly content.

But then Sherlock would do something like _think_ or _wonder_ or simply in John's direction and all that carefully laid control would shatter like it was never there at all and Sherlock would be lost to his filthy thoughts and a painfully hard erection. The genius boy had thought time would help ease the tension in his body that's produced itself by being so physically close to someone he's so devastatingly attracted to without releasing it properly, but time has done nothing to tamper the budding urges he's never properly had.

Eighteen years of zero sexual attraction or contact has apparently stormed a rather severe want in Sherlock Holmes' body and the only person that can calm it has decided the best option in this relationship is to _go slow_.

If Sherlock had his way, it would be to hell with fucking _slow_ because the need he feels to be physical with John is practically tearing him in two and the wait is only making it more difficult to not only rip that godforsaken pillow out from where it has been wedged between their hips more often than not lately, but it's also made it almost impossible to keep his hands out of John's clothing. The temptation to sneak wandering fingers beneath t-shirts and pants is getting to be too much.

Another excellent reason to get out of this tiny room and out into the world with more distractions and less gorgeous rugby players with hard muscles and soft lips and pretty smiles pressing against him. More disruptions of increasingly heated kisses and moans. More options besides snuggling beneath warm sheets and snogging until the sun rises.

The thread of that last thought snakes its way back to the story about the man whose boyfriend kissed him in front of an interested party and snaps themselves together, forming a new idea altogether and Sherlock leans back in his chair, closing his eyes and steepling his fingers in front of his lips, letting the thought percolate before forming itself into somewhat of a shaky plan.

It's not new. Hell, it's not even brilliant. But it's a start.

He's a bit embarrassed that he hadn't thought of it sooner.

Exiting out of his spreadsheets and opening a new browsing window, Sherlock types the following into the search engine: _Dating_.

Which turns out to be a poor choice as millions of hits for dating sites filter into view, advertising everything from true love to one night stands, all with just the click of a button and Sherlock quickly back-spaces out of that, brows pinched as he adds the word _gay_ before _dating_ and hits enter again.

More of the same appears only now the sites are tailor-made for gay men looking for whatever their heart desires in a partner, more risqué photos appearing along the image bar of scantily clad men winking and smirking and showing more skin than necessary.

Scrubbing both hands through his curls and huffing down to the keyboard, Sherlock carefully picks through his brain to sort out how to word what he wants to ensure useful information will pop up instead of what appears to be something equal to internet trolling, deleting the words in the search bar yet again and trying for something more generic.

_Date ideas_

The sites that pop up are now of the Do It Yourself variety with a splash of creative experiences thrown in, advertising the brilliance of young minds who have clearly been on a million dates and are looking to mix things up a bit.

_50 At-Home Date Night Ideas_

_25 Dates for under $25_

_17 Free Best Summer Date Ideas_

Jesus Christ, no thank you.

Sherlock doesn't want fuck anything up. Sherlock doesn't want to be in charge of _making_ anything. Sherlock wants fucking _simple_. He doesn't want anything complicated or confusing or unique on his first actual date with John. He wants something he can handle. Something _John_ can handle. Something they can do together without any pressure, something they'll both enjoy without being closed into their room, something different but also modest and easy.

Is that so much to ask?

Apparently so as the internet continues to offer up nothing helpful, spitting out more unhelpful tips that get Sherlock exactly nowhere, his brain feeling like it's beginning to atrophy as he reads the same 'unique' ideas in every article.

He scrolls for another hour, checking the clock just in time to notice it's getting on 3pm and John will be back within a few hours after classes. It's a bye-week for the rugby team and John is going to be home all weekend with Sherlock, hence the intense research and planning that's been going on this past week.

The genius boy cannot be cooped up in their tiny dorm room with John's stocky, gorgeous body all weekend, snuggling close and touching Sherlock's, absolutely not. Not without breaking John's slow rule and ruining everything because his oversensitive body has no control when it comes to his beautiful roommate.

No, they must do something outside of these four walls.

Otherwise Sherlock is going to bloody _lose it_.

And with that final, panicked thought, the genius boy retrieves his mobile and slides it open, resorting to his last option as the internet proves fruitless for an inexperienced young man like himself. He taps out the message before he loses his nerve, thumbs flying across the screen and pressing send as quickly as possible.

_Hello._

Short and simple he decides is the best route considering he doesn't have any actual idea on how to phrase his question and he taps his foot against the tiled floor as he waits for the reply.

Turns out, he doesn't have to wait long.

_**I swear to god if you are texting me on a Friday evening about homework, I will come find you and drag you out to a strip club with me and then I will burn your Chemistry book.** _

Stifling a laugh at the level of ridiculous this message holds and how _Irene_ it truly is, Sherlock taps back equally quickly.

_This reply feels excessive to a simple hello._

_**It's not when you HAVE texted me about homework on a Friday night before.** _

_Well I wasn't texting you about homework._

_**What were you texting me about?** _

Ugh. Now this just feels extremely idiotic. Running a thumb along his bottom lip, Sherlock considers before attempting to go the blunt route, deciding he's already in it now.

_You've dated a lot of people._

_**This could be construed as an insinuation of something quite rude but since it's you, I'm gonna blow right past it.** _

_Okay._

_**That wasn't a question.** _

_Right._

_What do you do?_

_**What do I do with what, Sherlock?** _

_With people you date._

_**What do you mean?** _

_On dates. What do you do with people you date on dates?_

_**My god, this is painful.** _

_**What specifically are you asking about? What do I do with people I date? In terms of… what?** _

_I don't know. That's why I'm asking._

_**Are we talking about sex?** _

The mobile almost goes flying out of his hand as he startles, eyes going wide as he rereads the message.

_God NO I am not talking about that. Especially not with you._

_**Well if you need any advice in that department, please do let me know. I'm an excellent study ;)** _

_No._

_No I am asking for some advice on what to do with John. In terms of activities._

_**Activities.** _

_Yes._

_**I'm sorry, all I can think about is sexual things. Please specify.** _

Some help this is.

_I mean what else should we do besides just being in our room?_

_**Go out.** _

Huffing in irritation, Sherlock stabs his reply.

_Yes, I understand that. But where? I'd like to take John on a proper date but I don't know what that entails. So if you're going to continue to be absolutely useless than forget I asked._

He presses send harder than necessary and tosses his phone onto his desk with a clunk, glaring harshly at it.

When the reply comes, he really debates not reading it at all before he realizes he still has no idea what to do about this date situation and resigns himself to it.

_**Awwww you wanna take your new boyfriend on a date, Sherlock Holmes?** _

_That is what I just said._

Annoyance subsides long enough for him to panic a bit as Irene takes longer to reply and he can't help sending one more message.

_Is that something someone should do in a relationship?_

_**Yes! Absolutely, take your man out on the town!** _

Sherlock blinks several times down at the message before the heat in his body starts to creep both north and south, up into his cheeks and down into his hips, the territorial side of his brain kicking into high gear as he rereads the words, biting down on his bottom lip and sinking into the thought.

_My man._

He can't deny he _loves_ the sound of that.

He swallows several more times, reveling in the idea for a long moment before he remembers his original plan.

_Where?_

_**Wherever your little heart desires. It's nice! Especially when you first start dating. John will love it.** _

_Okay but where should we go?_

**_Probably a restaurant._ **

Brows knitting together, Sherlock mulls that over for a moment.

Restaurants.

Dinner.

Oh.

 _Oh_!

Oh god, it's so simple now.

Simple and easy and _perfect_. Sherlock can definitely take John to dinner. John loves food and Sherlock barely has to lift a finger.

Dinner is spot on.

_You think dinner is good?_

_It's not too dull, is it?_

_**Sherlock, honey, have you been on a date before?** _

_John and I went to Mike's party a few weeks ago._

_**Yeah that doesn't count.** _

_**You should take him to dinner.** _

_**I think for the two of you, dinner is perfect. Start the dating thing off slowly.** _

_Where should we go?_

_**Somewhere romantic.** _

_What's romantic?_

_**Flowers, candles, low lights, soft music.** _

Candles? Candles would not be safe in the dorm. John is already thoroughly against experiments, Sherlock is certain he would not appreciate an open flame for the sake of romance in their dorm room.

The soft music and the low lights he could do.

Wait.

_The restaurant has to have all these things?_

_**No, they're just generally romantic things.** _

_Should I get John flowers?_

_**Oh my god, yes please god get your gay boyfriend gay flowers you precious gay sweetheart, you.** _

_Okay, so no flowers._

_**No you SHOULD! It's so cute! And also please send a video of you handing them to John, I need to see this beautiful gayness unfold.** _

_You are being very unhelpful._

_**I feel quite helpful thank you very much.** _

_**Look, I really think you should keep things simple and easy for you both for this first date. Doing too much will distract things.** _

_**Dinner is perfect for you two.** _

_Okay. Thanks._

_**And then after dinner you can do all the distracting things you want to each other ;)** _

_I'm not talking to you about this._

_**Oh don't be such a prude, your sexy rugby player is gonna put out SO HARD after he sees what a romantic his boyfriend is.** _

_Goodnight, Irene._

_**Boooo.** _

Tapping his mobile against his lips, Sherlock closes his eyes and lets his brain do the rest of the work, forming a simple yet excellent plan that he's a bit ashamed he couldn't have come up with on his own in the first place, the idea so obvious now it takes no time at all for the entire evening to take shape in his mind.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_**Exam is DONE!** _

_How'd it go?_

_**Well, I think. I hope anyway. What are you up to?** _

_Nothing._

_**Ah. Destroying things in our room good and proper?** _

_Maybe._

_**What a menace my boyfriend is.** _

_You like it._

_**God help me I do.** _

_**I am far too aware by now how pointless this question is but I'm starving so I'm going to ask it anyway because it's polite: thoughts on dinner?** _

_Yes, actually._

_**WHAT?! Really?! Sherlock "Eating Is Beneath Me" Holmes is actually CRAVING something?! This is a truly spectacular day for mankind!** _

_Good god._

_**I need details on this immediately.** _

_**Tell me, is your stomach grumbling? Is it aching and growling at you demanding to be fed finally? What is it asking you for, Sherlock? WHAT DOES THE GUT WANT?!** _

_If you would calm down a fraction, I'd be happy to tell you._

_**Okay give me just a minute.** _

_**Alright, I have run a full celebratory lap around the quad and am now proceeding to walk home. Tell me boyfriend of mine, what would your heart desire for supper?** _

_Actually, I thought we could go out tonight._

_**Out?** _

_Yes._

_**Out where?** _

_**Wait, are the boys having a party? Those wankers didn't even tell me. See, I knew this would happen, I'd get a great boyfriend and they'd drop me the second they got on your good side.** _

_You are awfully dramatic today._

_**I can't help it! I get an entire weekend away from rugby all of which I get to spend with you and I have no homework. It's a pretty solid situation for old John Watson.** _

_I suppose that's true. But there is no party. I thought we could go have dinner together._

_**Like at a restaurant?** _

_Yes John, like at a restaurant._

_**Sherlock Holmes** _

_**Are you taking me on a date?** _

_So what if I was?_

_**Then I'd demand to know where you are right now so I can come find you and give you a big sloppy kiss.** _

_Why must it be sloppy?_

_**Because you're taking me on a date and I think you deserve all the sloppy kisses ever.** _

_Can't I have nice kisses?_

_**Oh yes, you can have all the nice kisses you want.** _

_**But you also need sloppy kisses. Lots of them.** _

_**Luckily, I can provide both.** _

_Okay well I think I'll keep my distance for now from those sloppy kisses._

_**You can't run from the slop forever!** _

_I can try._

_I'll come get you in an hour._

_**You're picking me up?** _

_Yes. That's what one does on dates._

_**But we live together.** _

_I can leave and come back and it counts as picking you up._

_**Oh does it now?** _

_It does._

_**You are pulling out all the romantic stops.** _

_Too much?_

_**Absolutely not. It's perfect. I'm heading back to our room now. Should I wear something nice?** _

_Wear whatever you want._

_**What are you wearing?** _

_What I always wear._

_**Okay then I'm definitely wearing something nice.** _

_I'll see you in an hour._

_**See you then, love.** _

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He'd thought the next hour would pass rather slowly, the anticipation of the night slowing time infinitely as he waited to take his boyfriend on their very first date. He'd thought he'd be checking the clock on his phone every couple minutes and groaning in annoyance when it wasn't magically 7pm. He'd thought he'd be going out of his mind attempting to be patient and failing miserably.

He'd thought very wrong.

The minutes don't even register on his radar as he stares down at the message on the phone in his hand, the quiet of the library doing nothing to soothe his loud, racing thoughts, popping like firecrackers in every different direction, diverting his attention this way and that as he reads it and then reads it again and then reads it again.

The last word.

One syllable.

 _Love_.

The word stares back at him, somehow soft even in black lettering, hanging off the end of its sentence like it belongs there, all natural and obvious like it's been dropped dozens of times previously and will continue to appear on a regular basis.

_Love._

And though he knows full-well that the term of endearment is a common one amongst British people, a meaningless term plenty of people use to greet their friends and family whenever they like, it doesn't seem to matter to the heart beating wildly in his chest.

John Watson just called Sherlock Holmes love and, hell, doesn't that just make the genius boy want to cradle his phone to his chest and grin down at it until his jaw aches.

It's absurd, and Sherlock knows it's absurd but somehow he just can't find another heart within himself to tell his only one because it's so damn overjoyed it seems cruel to shut down its happy thudding.

Sherlock Holmes has never had a nice nickname like this before. Is this a nickname? Does it count as one? Ugh, who cares. It's beautiful and it's in writing and Sherlock can keep it forever. The last time anyone referred to him other than his given name, not counting the various fond terms John likes to use to tease the hell out of him, Sherlock can barely remember. It had only been weeks ago, on the day that had gone from the very worst to the very best of Sherlock's young life and somehow that moment, that ' _freak_ ' is hardly a blip on his radar anymore. Sure he could cough up a few choice scenes where big, mean arseholes tossed him into lockers and called him a freak or a faggot or a loser during secondary school, and of course he could remember several memorable pummelings he'd been on the receiving end of while blokes three times his size spat venom down at his broken body. He's got plenty of those to choose from.

But the last one? The very last one? It hardly registers. It's hardly even a memory. It's like this one word sitting in this text message has erased that single last time and Sherlock can't help but smirk triumphantly.

Victor Trevor and his pettiness will never hold a candle to John Watson and his poetry.

So instead of trying to conjure up that single conversation he'd had all those weeks ago, Sherlock indulges in this one, leaving his heart to its own devices while his head spins and spins and spins, rereading the message over and over until the words are no longer more than smudges on his screen and Sherlock's heart calms from a pounding to a flutter, dancing happily in his chest.

And before he knows it, the hour has been nothing but a blink of an eye and he's standing up on shaky legs, checking his hair in the reflection of his phone because he'd coiffed it into place before he'd left the room and wants it to be perfect.

He wants this entire _night_ to be perfect. For his John.

John deserves the best first date ever.

Gathering up his three belongs – his wallet, his phone and his courage – Sherlock makes his way down the library staircase and out into the brisk night, making quick work of the short walk back to his dorm, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the breath curling in front of him suggesting he'd better grab a coat when he arrives at his room.

It's only when the building of his now familiar dormitory looms into view that his stomach chooses then to do several complicated Olympic-level gymnastics flips and his heart rattles the ribcage its housed in violently, apparently attempting to remind him that the big night is about to begin.

Yeah. Like Sherlock wasn't already fully fucking _aware_ of that.

Tossing open doors with a confidence he has no business having, Sherlock ignores the hitch in his breath as he rounds the corner into their hallway, freeing his hands and wiping the sweaty remnants of balled fists onto the sides of his thankfully dark jeans, smoothing the material back into place before stopping and turning to face the door head on.

God, this is so stupid.

Why is he nervous? Not only has he been snogging the gorgeous rugby player who is currently waiting for him on the other side of the door nonstop for weeks, but he's also been _sharing a bed_ with him. He's also attended a few parties and a couple rugby games with said rugby player while being fully out and proud and couple-ish during all of these events.

So why is a silly little dinner out in London making him so bloody _nervous_?

Huffing an irritated sigh down at himself, Sherlock tugs each cuff of his plain black button-down to lay neatly along his wrists, makes one last pass with his palms down the front of his shirt in an ill-fated attempt to smooth out any wrinkles, knowing full well if there are any creases they won't be removed by a simple brush of a hand, and squares his shoulders. Drawing himself up to his full height, Sherlock dives head first into the abyss.

The knocks his knuckles produce are loud in the empty corridor and startles the genius boy slightly out of his swirling thoughts. He barely has time to suck in any air at all before the door is swinging open.

And then Sherlock is cursing himself for not taking that breath properly because the half breath he'd just taken is promptly knocked from his lungs at the sight of his boyfriend standing in the doorway and pinning him to the spot with his gaze.

Fucking hell, John Watson is so fucking _gorgeous_.

Sherlock is aware of how often he thinks this. He's aware of how much time he spends bundling certain mental images he's taken of John Watson over the last few months up and storing them away for safe keeping in Sherlock's Mind Palace, aware of how often he seems to somehow forget John is stunning, holding on to vague imagery until he sees him again, knocking him right off his feet all over again as he comes face to face with the beautiful boy.

But tonight…

God, tonight John has really outdone himself.

Thin white and navy stripes paint that fit torso deceivingly, making the body it belongs to look cozy and soft, the fuzzy material of the jumper disarming and gentle, the solid blocked navy draping around the shoulders and sloping down solid deltoids and triceps and biceps, wrapping around every part of John's body in just the right ways, accenting his thick muscles while simultaneously making them look warm and inviting. A white button down peeks out from beneath the collar and along the sleeve-endings, somehow slimming the already sculpted athlete, accenting all of his best body parts which, according to Sherlock, is every single one of them.

Dark jeans hug John's hips and slink down his thick, stocky legs to meet tanned dockers, laced in the front and newly polished.

And Sherlock knows, he fucking k _nows_ he's in for it as his gaze travel back up to meet cobalt eyes, accented beautifully by the rich navy in the jumper, seeming deeper and darker and heavy, sitting just beneath soft blonde fringe that falls across his forehead and wings out to the right in that unique, messy but completed John Watson way.

And it's a sight to be seen, that's for damn sure, that beautiful rugby player standing in the doorway of their dorm room so casually, hand still wrapped around the door handle, every part of his body tailored to a t for Sherlock's eyes to peruse and take in and _want_. It's every part of that fit frame standing in front of him that makes his mouth water.

But to top it all off, oh to make it one hell of show, is that goddamn brilliant megawatt smile currently shining from ear to ear, beaming Sherlock with its brightness, the genuine glow in John's face making Sherlock's knees buckle and just as he considers throwing himself into their shared bedroom and slamming the door behind them, dinner completely forgotten, it ends up being John who lunges first.

Fingers wrap into the front of his button down and tug with perfectly clear intent and Sherlock has no interest in denying the command, stumbling through the doorway in John's grasp and trying not to laugh joyously because his body isn't sure what else to do with all this energy as the door slams behind him right about the same time his back is colliding with it.

"Jesus _fuck_ ," John snaps out with an almost desperate quality, crowding into Sherlock's space easily, slotting his body between Sherlock's legs and sliding a hand up around the back of his neck. "Look at you. Just fucking _look_ at you… _god_."

" _Me_?" Sherlock demands breathlessly, palms already settling on John's hips and pulling him closer. His lips flap helplessly, thoughts unable to process the absurdity in front of him; John Watson stammering and staring at Sherlock like _he's_ some sort of marvel while it is actually _John_ who should be the one being praised and awed and, frankly, _drooled_ over in his fitted jumper and his tight jeans and his sodding grin that could light up the entire university campus. " _You_ ," is Sherlock's pathetic follow-up to his original counterpoint, thoughts beginning to spinning together tightly and confuse one another as the broad chest current pressed to his own rises and falls at the pace of a gentle panting and Sherlock finds his own breaths following at a similar tempo.

"Christ," John murmurs, running a hand down Sherlock's chest, following the move with his gaze, trailing all over Sherlock's frame before snapping back up to meet his eyes, inhaling and exhaling a rather shaky breath. "The last time you got all dolled up like this, that very first party I got you to go to, I wasn't allowed to touch you," he whispers, words ghosting along Sherlock's lips like a kiss, thumb coming up to stroke along the genius boy's cheekbone. "You looked so damn good and I couldn't even… but now I-… _fuck_ , you look incredible."

"What about you," Sherlock breathes a rebuttal, willing his body to calm itself down before he embarrasses himself and ruins the entire evening, though the gentle mixed scent of John's light cologne and clean John-musk is doing nothing to help the matter. "You and your sodding jumpers and jeans and… a-and… _this_." Pressing his hands to John's sides, Sherlock drags his thumbs along the hard muscles of John's abdomen to punctuate his point, only just biting back a whimper at the evidence of just how strong and thick and sexy John Watson truly is.

The grin pointed in his direction never waivers even as John's brows knit in confusion. "My stomach?"

"Your _body_ ," Sherlock corrects, no longer able to suppress a soft moan as John giggles, forcing the six-pack under Sherlock's thumbs to shift and harden again, making the tips his fingers tingle and burn and threaten to tighten on this fit body and never ever let go. "It's unfair you know, you looking like this."

"Oh yeah, let's talk about unfair," John chuckles, though Sherlock doesn't miss the slight pink kissing his face under Sherlock's praise. "You and your sodding cheekbones and ridiculously pretty curls and your eyes… - you are a _menace_ , Sherlock Holmes."

"That's not… it isn't - …speak for yourself," Sherlock tries to argue as heat rushes up the back of his neck, never able to keep his reactions under control when John talks to him like this and looks at him like this, his eyes unable to be anywhere but on John's lips, pink and shiny and right here, forming such sweet words and Sherlock just has to kiss him because what else can he do when he's stammering like a fool and John is showering him with such affection?

Nothing. He can do nothing except kiss that gorgeous boy until they're breathless and panting, hearts beating against each of their chests until they begin to thump in time with the other, tongues rolling together and lips colliding closing and sucking so gently, hands soothing down each other's bodies and up into fringe and down onto arses, wrapping themselves up in a moment Sherlock is loath to end.

Maybe it's an absurd reaction to have to John all dressed up, since, truthfully, Sherlock will take John Watson in any type of capacity. In sweats and a hoodie, in pants and a sleep shirt, in worn jeans and a graphic tee, in that _distracting_ rugby uniform; there is never a John Watson Sherlock wouldn't fully accept and curl into and snog senseless. Not a single one.

But tonight…

Tonight is just different. _Special_ , maybe. Tonight, John took the time to shower thoroughly, select very specific items of clothing, match his entire outfit, situated his blond fringe and dabbed on a bit of cologne – all for his night out with Sherlock.

Tonight, John Watson got all dressed up _for_ Sherlock Holmes.

The thought sends a warm wave of pleasure through Sherlock's body and he shivers slightly feeling a little unsteady, clutching John closer and delving deeper into his sweet mouth that tastes like toothpaste and fresh water.

"Alright you," John murmurs, pulling away just enough to speak against Sherlock's mouth. "We'd better get going otherwise we won't leave this room."

"That's fine," Sherlock whispers, stealing another kiss and not letting go of John's hips. "Sod dinner. We can order delivery."

"Absolutely not," John giggles, apparently also uninterested in moving away from where he has Sherlock pinned to the door. "I won't go ruining our first date simply because you're looking particularly attractive this evening."

"Particularly?" Sherlock jabs back, partly because the teasing helps soothe the intense moment, and mostly because he has no idea how to reply.

"Yes," John sneaks a peck in before continuing. "You look handsome as hell. I mean I always think you're beautiful but tonight you've really outdone yourself."

Leaning in to steal another kiss and stroke another cheek and press just a little closer, John continues on like he hasn't just devastated Sherlock's entire worldview, like his words shouldn't have any effect on the genius boy, like he hasn't just said the loveliest thing Sherlock has ever heard.

Irene says candles and flowers are romantic.

Irene is wrong.

Flowers and candles are nice.

But romantic? _John_ is romantic. John is sweet and endearing and romantic as all fucking hell.

And apparently this gorgeous blond boy doesn't even know it as he continues on talking like Sherlock's head hasn't gone a bit fuzzy.

"Besides, you put a lot of effort into tonight," John carries on, still doting on Sherlock's mouth with soft kisses and gentle touches.

"I _really_ didn't," Sherlock replies in a hushed, gravelly voice he wasn't even aware he was capable of making, clearing his throat before continuing. "It's a simple phone call, I can cancel-"

"You will do no such thing," John scolds teasingly. "We're going. Come on, don't you wanna take your good-looking boyfriend out on the town?" He raises an eyebrow and smirks as Sherlock fumbles for a response, throat getting dryer and face getting redder as John drops words like _attractive_ and _boyfriend_ and _beautiful_.

He opts for nodding in response because his vocal chords have stopped working and his brain has shut down and the only thing he seems to be able to hold onto is John's voice and John's lips and John's strong-as-shit body that feels _unbelievably_ solid and sturdy and hot under Sherlock's hands. He lets himself float in the warmth of John's frame still fitted around his up against the door, letting pleasure sweep through him as he gazes down at his perfect man.

"We need a proper date," John remarks as he kisses Sherlock one last time before stepping away and glancing around to grab his keys and wallet laying on the bed.

It gives Sherlock a second to catch his breath, to compose himself and to get quite a spectacular view of John Watson's tight arse looking exquisite in snug dark jeans.

Never a dull moment with this boy, Sherlock swears silently to himself, because John is yet again grinning at him. "Lead the way?"

With a silent nod and another shaky breath, Sherlock opens the door and leads them out of the dorm and back into the cool evening air.

"Bollocks, it's _freezing_ ," John snaps as the door shuts behind them, reaching out and grabbing Sherlock's hand to pull him close. "Aren't you cold? Where's your coat?"

"Oh, I forgot it inside," Sherlock mutters, less focused on the conversation and more on the short fingers lacing through his own. "It's fine."

"No, come on, let's grab it before we go," John says, stopping and tugging Sherlock back toward the dorm hall. "We can't go walking all over London on a cold night like this."

"Oh, we're not walking," Sherlock frowns, gesturing toward the idling black cab along the curb just as he'd instructed the driver to do when he'd called and arranged for the pickup earlier.

He turns just in time to see his adorable boyfriend's eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

"A _taxi_?" John is gaping and grinning at the same time, turning to beam in Sherlock's direction, his eyes glinting with a hint of excitement. "You're going all out tonight, huh?"

"Of course," Sherlock waves away the compliment with a flick of his wrist and tugs John toward the car waiting for them, allowing himself a small, private smile for pleasing his boyfriend so early in the night. Maybe this won't be a disaster after all.

Sherlock climbs in first, nodding in response to the cab driver's greeting, ignoring the knowing smile reflecting in the review mirror and waits as John gets himself situated. John, who slides into the taxi and promptly up against Sherlock's side, settling a hand on his knee so naturally like they've always been riding in cabs together for years, glancing around the inside before turning to watch the streets go by as they take off.

"How does he know where-" John murmurs quietly before turning back to Sherlock and gracing him with another trademarked John Watson Grin. "You told him before hand?"

"It was just easier," Sherlock ducks his head to hide the blush dusting his cheeks, hoping the dark is assisting. "I took care of directions and payment up front. It makes for less of a hassle."

 _And less of a chance of messing up anything this evening_ , he thinks privately to himself. He sneaks a glance upward to find deep blue eyes glowing at him.

"Have I told you yet that I fucking adore you?" John says as he leans over to plant a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. "Because I really _really_ do."

"I- n-no," the genius boy stumbles, leaning into the contact and the words ghost along his cheekbone from the boy beside him. "But I- thank you."

"Thank _you_ ," John giggles, sliding his hand further between Sherlock's knees and giving his thigh a gentle squeeze. "You are far more brilliant than I am. I should have been taking you on dates a long time ago."

"It's not like we've been together that long," Sherlock shrugs, hardly thinking it was John's responsibility alone to plan things like this.

"Which is a crime in and of itself," John argues with a shake of his head and a smile. "I should have been romancing you a long time ago, Sherlock."

Having no idea how to respond, Sherlock opts for laying his hand over John's in silent confirmation that he heard and appreciates the sentiment and can't quite hear his thoughts over the sound of the wave that's just swallowed him whole, carrying him off into the happy sea of John Watson's sweet words.

John Watson, the romantic _._

The short ride passes in a settling quiet, John watching the buildings get bigger outside his window as they make their way deeper into London and Sherlock watches the streetlight reflections dance across John's features, lighting his eyes and his nose and his lips in swirls of yellows and greens and reds, making him look impossibly young and impossibly stunning, the childlike excitement playing along his features making something twinge in Sherlock's chest.

"Have you been in the heart of the city before?" Sherlock murmurs, afraid of breaking the spell lighting up John's face.

"A handful of times, yeah," John nods, not looking away from the window. "But it still gets me every time, you know? I know we technically go to school in London but when you're actually at the center of it all…" He trails off and sighs, eyes flicking along signs and buildings and people they pass.

And Sherlock fully understands. He loves London, more than anywhere else he's ever been and John's awe is not lost on him. He grins down at their joined hands smugly at his own cleverness on bringing John down here, now just having to hope he'll enjoy the restaurant Sherlock has chosen.

The cab turns around a corner and Sherlock glances outside just in time to see the street sign glittering along the well-lit sidewalk and his heart flutters down into his stomach as he reads the familiar words: _Northumberland Street_. Christ, it's been so long since he's been here, his mouth ticking up at one corner, entire body beginning to buzz a bit as the cab slows to a halt in front of a giant window. Warmth spreads along the inside of Sherlock's ribcage at the sight of _Angelo's_ scrawled across the door, fairy lights hanging unevenly from the ceiling and twinkling in the window above an empty table placed strategically for ample city viewing. He can't help offering a small smile at the tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant he knows so well.

He can't _wait_ to share it with John.

"Mm, Italian," John beams as he shuffles out of the cab, immediately taking Sherlock's hand as they step out onto the sidewalk. "You already know the way to my heart."

"Through your stomach?" Sherlock rolls his eyes and shakes his fondly down at his roommate, already making his way to the door.

"Most definitely," John chuckles, giving Sherlock's hand a gentle squeeze.

Swinging the door open with John in tow, Sherlock has only a split second before his nose is assaulted, eyelids fluttering just a bit as the scents of garlic and basil seem to consume him, the warmth of the dimly lit room making his stomach churn with nostalgia, the sight of scruffy Angelo hurrying over with a grin on his face the last straw before Sherlock is not only grinning but being practically mauled into a hug by the hulking owner.

"Sherlock! It's been ages!" Angelo booms in that deep, growling voice of his, bundling Sherlock to his thick chest. "Where you been, mate? Haven't seen any of the Holmes round this place in too long!"

"Hello Angelo," Sherlock tries not to laugh and fails, patting the owner's strong muscled back. "It's good to see you."

Angelo releases him and grabs onto his shoulders, giving him a quick shake and beaming at him proudly. "When I'd heard you'd called earlier today I reserved your usual spot." He sweeps one giant hand at the empty table in front of the window sitting up against a cushioned bench in the shape of an L lining the wall around it, small _Reserved_ card scribbled in cursive and perched at the center.

Sherlock grins at it, the olive green leather looking worn and familiar and just as cozy as he remembers. He pulls John along with him as Angelo ushers them over, John sliding along the length of the bench while Sherlock takes his usual seat at the end.

"Come on, sit, sit!" Angelo chortles in his gruff baritone, glowing joyously down at the two of them as they settle in, handing menus off to each of them. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want free, on the house for you and for your date." He makes a show of winking in John's direction with absolutely _no_ subtly whatsoever and even going a pretty shade of pink, John still smiles back like this interaction is something he'll remember for a long time.

Sherlock can't really help but chuckle quietly down at his menu.

"I'll get that candle for the table," Angelo continues, pointing in Sherlock's direction before backing away. "It's more romantic."

"Thank you," Sherlock nods his gratitude and ducks his head as Angelo gives him a knowing smirk, instead turning his attention back to his date.

His date who chooses to lay his menu down on the table, lace his fingers over top of it and fix Sherlock with a rather pointed, though not unkind look, his features twitching with the effort not to smile.

" _Candles_?" He exaggerates the word, dragging it out and waggling his eyebrows, finally giving in and tossing his head back with a laugh as Sherlock's cheeks darken and he buries his face in his menu.

"Irene said it was romantic," Sherlock tries to counter, feeling a bit foolish as Angelo sneaks back over to slide the already lit candle onto the table without another word, flicking a thumbs-up to them both before disappearing as quickly as he'd come.

Sherlock takes the moment to glare steadily down at the stupid tiny tea light flickering barely an inch worth of fire between them.

"Irene?" John asks with a tilt of his head, still grinning. "Sherlock Holmes, did you ask Irene for help on how to take me on a date?"

"No," Sherlock immediately denies. It's not actually a lie. He didn't ask Irene about _how_ to take John on a date. Not specifically, anyway.

Raising a challenging brow, John smiles wider. "Sherlock," he says slowly, teasing the word out from between his lips and catching all of the genius boy's attention. "What did you ask Irene?"

"Well the internet turned out to be absolutely useless," the curly-haired boy huffs and sulks into his seat. "I just wanted to know how I could be a good partner. To you, I mean. How to keep things interesting and all that. Who else was I supposed to ask?"

Blue eyes soften immediately, taking on a gentle glimmering fondness, the smirk playing along John's lips falling away to a genuine smile as he offers Sherlock a look full of such tenderness it warms Sherlock from head to toe. He scoots just a bit closer, pressing his thigh up against Sherlock's in quiet comfort. "You did research on how to be good to me?"

"Of course," the genius boy attempts to respond with a wave of his hand like the entire matter is of absolutely no importance, like it hasn't been his sole project for the last week, like the phrasing of John's words doesn't prickle the back of his neck with an undeniable heat he isn't quite sure how to handle. He doesn't move his leg though, soaking in all the heat John's thigh has to offer. "How else would I know?"

"God you are adorable," John giggles kindly, eyes never leaving Sherlock's. "My absolutely _adorable_ boyfriend."

The words fall dangerously close to something John had text messaged earlier, something that Sherlock still can't shake from his thoughts, something he doesn't think he will ever forget.

He finds that he has to ask.

"Earlier," Sherlock manages to murmur under John's tender gaze, fumbling his phone out of his pocket and sliding the screen open, scrolling back to John's message and avoiding his boyfriend's eyes altogether. "You, er… you said, um…"

He can't seem to speak properly so instead he finds the text and slides his mobile to John, tapping his finger against the screen. "You said, uh… that."

Blinking down at the screen, John's gaze shifts across the sentence before cobalt eyes crinkle at the edges as pink lips spread into a slow smile, tipping up and shining itself in Sherlock's direction, John's look soft and adoring, like Sherlock may just be the most precious thing on earth. He reaches his hand across the table and slides his fingers along the back of Sherlock's hand, nudging his pinky beneath it until Sherlock turns it over and offers his palm to John, which the rugby player readily takes, tucking his fingers between Sherlock's and locking their hands together.

"Was that okay?" the blond boy asks softly, nodding down to the phone still laying in front of him, though his gaze never leaves the genius boy's face and Sherlock treasures every moment of being John's sole focus.

Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and pinching it between his teeth, attempting to focus on something other than beautiful blue eyes looking at him like he's something to cherish, Sherlock nods and subconsciously grips John's hand harder.

"I thought you might find nicknames a bit silly," John continues, stroking a thumb along the back of Sherlock's hand. "But you like it, don't you, love?"

It's not accusatory or meant to humiliate in any way. It's tender and honest, just like John Watson, always so careful, always so careful with Sherlock.

Thick bands wrap around Sherlock's chest and squeeze as he holds John's gaze, his ribcage throbbing as his heart seems to try to break free from the pressure and he tries to swallow around a dry throat threatening to fill itself with a lump of emotion, the moment stretching out far longer than it ought to but John Watson is staring at him like _that_ and Sherlock can't bring himself to end it. He wants to get lost in that look. He wants to dive head first into that look and swim in the sea of John's affection forever.

No one has ever looked at him like this before and it's making Sherlock's brain all sorts of fuzzy, too many thoughts pinging around his head like lightning bolts, his entire being unsure what to do under the gaze of his roommate and yet never ever wanting it to end. He would live in this moment if he could, settle in and stay here forever with John looking at him like this, holding his hand and calling him _love_ and beaming at him with a mix of warmth and fondness and a simmering heat Sherlock has seen in moments where their kisses get a little deeper and their hands get a little bolder and their hearts beat against each other as their chests press closer beneath the covers of their now shared bed.

 _Passion_.

It's overlaid every word, every move, every gaze in Sherlock's direction, wrapping every moment in a subtle, aching potential that hangs raw between them no matter where they are or what they're doing, flaring hotter in closer proximity and dimming when they're apart, though never falling far, sitting just beneath the surface, biding its time until the moment presents itself, private or public it appears to not matter as Sherlock's jeans tighten around his hips.

The fingers snuggled between his slip free and slide beneath his hand to cradle it upward, and Sherlock only has a millisecond to track the progress of the movement before he realizes exactly where it's headed, and suddenly he can't breathe as John brings his hand to his lips and lays a gentle kiss in Sherlock's palm, brushing the lightest touch along the delicate skin with such care it becomes physically impossible for the genius boy to do anything besides stare.

John's gaze doesn't waver, if anything it darkens and Sherlock finally has to look away, has to find a way to take a breath and readjust himself in his seat. He's never let himself recognize it until now, hadn't been ready to, hadn't known what to do with it if he had, but now he knows and now he sees it and now he can't _unsee_ it and god does he _want_ John. He wants to experience _everything_ with John. And if the passion they share in a single lingering gaze can turn him on this bloody much, Sherlock can't even begin to imagine what it will be like when heated snogging in the warmth of John's bed turns to something so much more.

The waiter arrives right on cue to take their drink orders while dropping off glasses of water and Sherlock takes the moment to slug down several gulps of water, parched from the searing heat John had just fried him in, the chilled liquid doing nothing to douse the fire sitting deep in his belly.

And John calls _him_ a fucking menace.

"But hey," John continues after they let the waiter know water will do just fine, seeming unaffected by the break in the conversation, the moment broken but not forgotten, the tension no longer ready to snap but still lurking beneath every word spoken, every gaze caught, every accidental touch. "You know you don't need to do research, right? You can just be you. In case this wasn't abundantly clear, I like you. Exactly how you are."

Ignoring the flush rushing up into his cheeks, Sherlock clears his throat. "I wanted to be prepared," he replies diplomatically, steadfastly ignoring his blushing face even as John's grin tells him it's deep and dark and so bloody obvious. "Besides, I read some interesting things in the articles I found that I didn't know before. For example, one of the pieces stated in order to keep my man happy, I need to make sure he eats proper meals, hence dinner tonight."

Blinking for a long moment, eyes trained on Sherlock intensely, John's features shift yet again, finding a new kind of warmth to radiate in the genius boy's direction, the corners of his mouth quirking up in a playful grin, his entire demeanor teasing. "Oh, I'm your _man_ , am I?"

It takes a minute for that to sink in before Sherlock's mouth drops open.

He can't seem to find any words to explain that that isn't what he meant but it also might kind of be what he meant he supposes, so instead of saying anything at all, he simply gapes stupidly for long enough that John lifts a hand to lay against his cheek and leans forward with a soft laugh. "I think I like the sound of that," he whispers, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's cheek. He strokes a thumb along a red cheekbone once more before dropping his hand and glancing back to the menu, taking the pressure off of Sherlock to figure out something to say.

The genius boy is fiercely grateful for it.

"Jesus, everything on this menu looks delicious," John hums, skimming down the page in his hand before flipping it over. "How'd you even find this place?"

"I didn't," Sherlock replies around a dry mouth, clearing his throat and taking a sip of water before continuing, feeling a little less like he's standing on shaky ground. "Mrs. Hudson did actually. A long time ago, she brought Mycroft and I here for dinner and it sort of became our place. I'm sure you can only imagine my fat brother stuffing his face with all the pasta they have here."

That's not actually the whole truth but Sherlock would prefer to not ruin the evening with something as ugly as the truth. He tries not to glance at the seat to John's right, ignoring the image conjured up in his head of Mrs. Hudson dressed in all black and staring fiercely back at him, gripping his and Mycroft's hands and telling them they aren't alone. Even now, all these years later it still twinges something in Sherlock's chest, the sight of his housekeeper-turned-parent immediately stepping in after the death of their parents, protecting them the only way she knew how, guiding them through the grief.

It helps keep the tears at bay to know they'd been to Angelo's so many times after that. Sherlock has other memories of this place besides the dinner they'd had here on the day of his parent's funeral.

"Ah," John agrees, shifting in his seat like he'd like to say something else but refraining, seeming to choose his next words carefully, gaze glancing up and then away from Sherlock.

Watching him carefully, Sherlock takes another gulp of water, wading through the hearts in his eyes that seem to appear whenever he looks at this blond boy, and switching into deduction mode, frowning over the rim of the glass as he reads all of John's tells.

And that's when the other shoe drops.

Thunking his glass down onto the table, Sherlock sighs heavily and looks out the window. "I see Mycroft- no, Greg must have told you."

Even in the low lighting, Sherlock can see the pink kissing each of the apples in John's cheeks. "What?" the rugby player attempts to ask though the fact that he's refusing to even look at Sherlock tells the entire story.

"My parents are dead, John, it's not some big secret," Sherlock snaps out and turns his fiery gaze back to his menu, frustration sharpening his words knowing full-well what comes next.

Pity.

It's always pity.

The last fucking thing he wants on his first date with John.

"I'm sorry," are the words that fall out of John's mouth just like Sherlock knew they would, except for the fact that they sound… different.

Not exactly pity.

More like a genuine apology.

Glancing up from where he's glaring daggers into the list of pasta choices, Sherlock finds soft blue eyes filled with concern, bottom lip tucked between teeth where John gnaws at it anxiously. "I didn't mean to upset you," he murmurs, hand fidgeting on the table like he wants to reach for Sherlock's but isn't sure if he's allowed to anymore. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

Swallowing an embarrassed bob in his throat at his outburst, Sherlock's shoulders drop from where they'd gone rigid preparing for the obligatory apology and awkward continuation of a conversation because where does one go after discussing dead relatives? It's always a mood killer.

But John, as always, surprises him, offering Sherlock a way out before they walk down horror lane and thus making Sherlock's original reaction ridiculous.

"But just know that… know that you _can_ , if you want to," John assures, taking Sherlock's calmer body language as an opening to reach out again for his hand. "I hope you know I'm here whenever you need me. For… anything really."

"Not much to tell, really," Sherlock shrugs, averting his eyes but keeping his grip on John sturdy. "They died in a plane crash when I was twelve. I don't remember a lot before that."

It's not an outright lie, but it's as close as Sherlock is willing to get to the truth right now.

"Yeah, I understand that," John nods sympathetically, easing the tension in the conversation and removing the spotlight from Sherlock as he says, "My dad left when I was five. Barely remember him even being there at all."

Silently appreciating John Watson and his sense to move things away from a topic that clearly makes him uncomfortable, Sherlock nods in understanding.

"Harry says she remembers him clearly," John shrugs, sliding his finger along the condensation slipping down his glass, "but Harry is a notorious liar. And mum refuses to ever speak of him. We all act like he was never there to begin with so it's rather easy to forget."

"That couldn't have been easy," Sherlock offers pathetically, fear creeping up the back of his neck as he realizes how ill-equipped he is for this type of conversation. Comforting without overbearing, sympathizing without pitying, supporting without prying.

It's a goddamn landmine of a conversation.

But, this is what boyfriends do. Sherlock had read all about it. This is what boyfriends are meant to be; support systems. And Sherlock would be damned if he denied John that.

"Eh, it could be worse," John waves away and just as he's preparing to jump head first into this conversation, Sherlock is a bit startled at John chuckles and shoots him a grin. "What other depressing things should we talk about next?"

Ducking his head on a laugh of his own, Sherlock shakes his head. "I supposed this a bit of heavy conversation for a first date?"

"Absolutely," John agrees, taking a swig of water. "Next heavy topic. Coming out stories?"

Sherlock snorts unflatteringly and flicks his hand in John's direction. "You go. I don't have one."

"You've _never_ come out?" John asks, eyes widening.

"Never had to," Sherlock shrugs. "Everyone that mattered pretty much seems to have assumed or guessed. Didn't seem like there was much of a point."

"So, but you are - … sorry if this is rude, but you are _gay_ , right?" John asks, crinkling his nose at his own awkwardness.

Shooting him a withering glance, Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Surely the fact that I've been snogging the hell out of you for the past few weeks was clear evidence of that fact?"

Freezing for a long moment holding his water glass halfway to his lips, John's shocked gaze flips itself and he's tossing his head back with a laugh. "Yeah yeah, alright," he chuckles, shaking his head at Sherlock. "I meant you identify as gay? Not bisexual or pansexual or anything?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock smirks. "Gay is the term that defines my sexuality."

"Hey, I'm bisexual," John says, throwing his hands up in front of him as if to defend his point. "I was simple asking."

"Ah," Sherlock nods. "And how did _you_ come out?"

"I supposed I didn't have some grand coming out," John glances up to the ceiling thoughtfully. "It didn't seem like a big deal. My sister is a lesbian so most people didn't seem to be surprised when I told them I was bi, which makes absolutely no sense since it's not like if one sibling is gay, they all are, but you know. People are idiots."

He drops a wink at the genius boy and Sherlock knows he's grinning like a besotted fool but he truly can't care. "Quite," he agrees and John chuckles down into his water glass. "So, it wasn't a big shock, being attracted to men?"

"Nah, it wasn't a big deal," John says before turning a mischievous gaze on Sherlock, a playful smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth. "Which is lucky considering my attraction to you was immediate and completely obvious. I think I'd have run for the hills if I wasn't comfortable with liking blokes."

John Watson is just full of bombshells tonight. "What?" is the only reply Sherlock can manage, blinking rapidly as John's smirk turns soft and warm.

"Oh yeah," he murmurs. "Haven't I told you, love? You knocked me off my feet the moment I laid eyes on you."

Oh god, he might be having a heart attack. Sherlock may be having some sort of heart malfunction as it speeds up in his chest, beating wildly while simultaneously bursting with so much joy it feels like he can't contain it.

He wants to tell John he fell for him the second he saw him that first day. He wants to tell John he'd agonized over his feelings, fought tooth and nail against them for weeks on end. But the words don't seem to want to come out.

The words don't want to seem to want to come out because Sherlock's mouth has instead found its way to John's, leaning over the short distance to lay a chaste kiss on John's precious lips, those lips that say such beautiful things, those lips that Sherlock could go on kissing for a lifetime. It's quick but meaningful, lingering for a moment longer than necessary and John hums, curling a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and giving it a gentle squeeze, fingers stroking through the curls at the base of the genius boy's neck even after he pulls away.

Which is, of course, when the waiter comes over to take their orders.

Ducking his head to hide his flushed cheeks, Sherlock rattles off his order without looking at the man standing in front of their table while John leans back in his seat, easy as you like, and asks about the best sauces the restaurant has to offer and what type of pasta goes with which, like he hadn't just rocked Sherlock's entire world for the tenth time this evening.

"So," John says, clapping his hands together and folding them on the table as the waiter leaves again, his blue eyes glinting. "Tell me more about this _research_ you've been doing on how to be a _fantastic_ boyfriend. What else have you learned?"

Rolling his eyes at John's obvious giddiness, Sherlock barely keeps a smile at bay and sighs. "Honestly? Absolute _rubbish_."

"What! Come on, you've got to have learned _something_ useful," John giggles, prodding Sherlock's shin with the toe of his shoe beneath the table.

"Really, it's all complete idiocy," Sherlock shakes his head because honestly he was a bit offended by some of the articles he'd read, such basic information like he was some sort of clueless buffoon. "It's all generic advice like _be kind_ and _be nice_ and _be caring_ and _considerate_. I found no concrete advice about anything."

John tips his head in agreement. "Yeah, I'm guessing most of the stuff out there is just broad statements like 'treat him right!' Like, what does that even mean?"

"Exactly!" Sherlock nods emphatically. "It's not specific in the least."

"Anything I've ever read on the topic of dating has only told me general things like that or given me sex tips," John shakes his head with a laugh. "It's completely ridiculous."

Oh.

Oh Jesus.

The question burns a scalding path up the back of his throat and Sherlock scolds himself for even letting it cross his mind but _Christ_ his gorgeous boyfriend who he's done no more than kiss has just said the word _sex_ and now there are two very distinct topics that Sherlock cannot shake from his brain. Number one being: Has John ever used said tips? And number two being: _Sex with John_.

Oh god, Sherlock can't even look at him. He can't even lay eyes on that brilliant blond rugby player who just said the word sex and somehow expects Sherlock _not_ to conjure up all kinds of ideas, mainly the fact that he _wants_ John more and more every single day.

"Anyway, I'd say you did pretty well tonight," John grins, apparently unaware of Sherlock's inner-turmoil. "Sod the internet, you're a fantastic partner already."

Attempting to smile in response, Sherlock can feel it pinch his mouth at the corners and he glances away, breathing a deep silent breath in through his nose and out through his mouth, considering grabbing his water glass and pressing it to his burning cheeks, feeling unbelievably hot under the collar.

And foolish.

So goddamn _foolish_.

One word, literally a single solitary word and Sherlock's libido is going haywire, skyrocketing his body temperature to new heights and conjuring up ridiculous thoughts in his head, the fact that he and John are taking things slow doing absolutely nothing to temper his threatening erection, replays of John's mouth forming the word _sex_ replaying over and over in his mind's eye.

This is so fucking embarrassing and so unbelievably arousing, sending mixed signals through his frame and his skin scalds where his thigh meets John's, the touch from the rugby player almost too much to bear as his hormones threaten to wage war against his saner judgements, drowning out any and all thoughts of _slow_.

Silence falls between the two boys sitting at the front table at Angelo's and Sherlock has one brief moment of hope that John is missing the way the genius boy is essentially refusing to look at him, convinced if he does he'll do something reckless.

Unfortunately, John has become fluent in Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" The word sounds so innocent and lovely falling from those pretty lips and it takes everything in Sherlock's body not to turn and look at him. "Is everything okay?"

"Mm," Sherlock replies, taking a beat to down a gulp of water. "Yes," he mutters weakly down to his drink.

"What is it?" John is scooting closer now and Sherlock is certain at any moment he is going to burst into flames. "What, did I say something wrong?"

He wonders what his mouth is going to produce in response as it opens.

What comes out is not what he expects.

"Are we going to have sex?"

Startling himself, Sherlock shoots a panicked glance at his roommate who looks like he'd just have done a spit take if he'd been drinking anything. Cursing himself, Sherlock glances down at his hands, mumbling, "Er- sorry… never mind."

The silence hangs between them long enough to form a bead of sweat on Sherlock's brow, panic now swirling in his stomach, and he's considering just bolting altogether when a hand is suddenly on his.

"Hey," John's soft tenor voice gentles into his ear. "Look at me, love."

Clearing his throat, Sherlock glances up from beneath his fringe, face going redder as he takes in John Watson smiling warmly at him. "Hm?"

"We are going to do whatever you'd like," John murmurs with a squeeze to his hand. "We're going slow until you're ready for more."

Worrying his bottom lip, Sherlock watches John carefully for a long time. "But…" he tries and fails to convey what he's saying, considering he's not even sure what he's saying. "I… Surely going slow is awful? For you?"

It's like several questions mashed up into one, all of which Sherlock is terrified to ask out loud.

_When can we stop going slow?_

_How do we move forward?_

_How do I ask for what I want?_

_Is going slow ruining this?_

_Am_ I _ruining this?_

"It's not awful," John shakes his head, brows pinched in genuine concern. "Of course not. I want to take things slow with you and I want us to move forward when we're ready. Sherlock, our relationship is so much more than sex. I want us to build a foundation before we take that step."

"Haven't we, though? Haven't we built a foundation?" God, it sounds so petulant and pathetic and maybe a bit accusatory, but Sherlock is spinning out of control a bit, with a mix of want and need and maybe a bit of terror at the unknown.

"I think so, yeah," John nods, laying a warm hand over Sherlock's. "I'm not trying to deny you anything, love. Not at all. And trust me, I do want to sleep with you. Very much so."

"So why aren't we?" He doesn't mean to make it sound like a demand but his words seem to be completely out of his hands.

"Because I want you to be sure," John murmurs firmly. "It's a big step and I want you to be really sure it's what you want. That I'm the one you want it with."

Gathering his own thoughts, Sherlock takes a moment to mull that over, carefully wading through John's words in an attempt to decipher the hidden meaning, knowing he must be missing something….

And it goes off with a _ding_ in his ears. He levels his gaze at John. "You're not a virgin."

John shakes his head, apparently perfectly at ease with this line of questioning. "I'm not," he admits. "Which is why I understand how important this is for you. But I don't want to hurry through this just because I'm not. I want _you_ to be ready."

"You've had sex with… girls?" Sherlock tilts his head, deductions overpowering the jealousy threatening to creep into his chest.

"One, yes," John nods. "My first time was consensual but I _definitely_ wasn't ready and it was… not the greatest of experiences."

It takes a moment for that to sink in before the last piece of the puzzle slots into place and Sherlock can finally _finally_ see the entire picture.

And things suddenly make so much more sense, it's like a bolder being lifted off his shoulders as clarity bursts through.

John is protecting him.

John is protecting them _both_.

It's Sherlock's turn to lace his fingers with John's and press just a bit closer. "I'm sorry your first time wasn't perfect," Sherlock murmurs, pressing a kiss to John's cheek. "You deserve to have nothing but the very best."

"It happens," John shrugs, though his voice is soft and tender, like he's letting Sherlock's words wrap him up and he smiles gently, the moment becoming intensely intimate as the tiny candle beside them flickers. "But I don't think we'll have a problem. I think you and I will be just fine. When we're _both_ ready."

The last word trickles breath along Sherlock's nose and he only just realizes how close they are and how softly their speaking to each other, hands clasped together on the table, foreheads practically touching. "How will we know?" Sherlock whispers into the small space between them, gaze on John's lips as the blond responds.

"Trust me," John murmurs back, blue eyes flickering between Sherlock's. "We'll know."

The world could be falling apart around them and Sherlock would have no idea, so long as John Watson continues to look at him like that.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Soft lamplight filters into the room from the streetlights outside, the night quiet and calm and just like any other as Sherlock crawls into bed beside his boyfriend, stripped down to a t-shirt and pants like always, back pressing to John's front as he settles in.

Unlike the night, Sherlock is not calm. His thoughts are not quiet. It is _not_ just like any other night.

A steady thrum of energy has been coursing through him since dinner. A low frequency that's unnoticeable to outsiders, anyone passing by completely unaware of the way his blood seems to pump in time with John Watson's breathing, pulse rising and falling with every move John Watson makes.

It's been going on since _dinner_.

Their food had come minutes after that charged moment in the restaurant, shattering the invisible cocoon they'd formed around themselves and breaking their concentration on each other, leaving a tingling sensation beneath Sherlock's skin and a tap in his foot as his heel bounced up and down on the cement floor, vibrating gently with an undercurrent of something, the possibilities seeming endless between he and John.

Sherlock had barely managed to choke down his pasta.

They'd gone the rest of the night in relative silence, though absolutely not uncomfortable but most definitely palpable, staying close enough to touch but seeming hardly able to speak, their heated gazes when they caught saying enough for an entire conversation.

It was practically _torture_ , being that close.

And so now, as they settle in to sleep, Sherlock isn't quite sure he can take it anymore, the night ending in not a bang but a whimper, all that unreleased tension still lingering, leaving Sherlock feeling a bit uncomfortable and so out of sorts it _aches_.

Pressing a soft kiss just below his ear and snuggling in, John breathes, "Goodnight, Sherlock. Thank you for a wonderful evening," ever so softly, sighing contentedly and pressing a hand to the genius boy's belly, holding him as close as possible as he settles in for the night, aligned along Sherlock's back perfectly, fitting like he always does.

Tonight, however, is a little different.

Tonight, it sets every single nerve in Sherlock's body on fucking _fire_.

The whisper of breath against the whorl of his ear, the warmth of the palm laying against his clothed stomach, the muscled body somehow equally hard and soft curled up around him makes the ache in Sherlock's abdomen shudder to life and seize him from head to toe, tiny beads of sweat breaking out along his hairline as John's exhales trail along his neck, cold and then warm, cold and then warm again.

It's making him _burn_ from the inside out.

Pressed so close and yet feeling so very far away, Sherlock blinks into the dark room, hardly daring to move as he breathes silent shaky breaths of his own, attempting to calm his rapidly beating heart as his body begs for more, more touching, more feeling, more _John_ , Christ how he _wants_ John.

He can't put his finger on why it seems so vital now, maybe it's the cold night or the food or the somehow loving yet highly erotic conversation they'd had over dinner but god almighty it is imperative right the fuck now that he gets John Watson's hands all over him as soon as possible, the hollow feeling in his stomach turning over and _pulsing_ , shaking Sherlock's body to its core for John's touch. It's too much being this close, being this wrapped up in John and not moving forward, not taking that next step, not being with John. Being with John like Sherlock so _desperately_ wants.

God, is he ready. He's so bloody ready it almost hurts.

John was right. He did know.

He did know that it's _now_.

His hand creeps along his own leg beneath the blanket, trailing against his own blazing skin and he swallows, his own touch already feeling hot against his overly sensitive body, eyelids fluttering as he tries to steady his breathing, taking his time to get to his goal while simultaneously staying ahead of his brain threatening to go into overdrive at the newness of all of this.

The tips of his fingers find the solid backside of John's hand against his belly and he just barely manages to keep himself from moaning out loud, tiny tingles dancing along each digit pad as they brush against smooth, warm skin, crawling their way up and around, sliding into the spaces between John's fingers and closing, locking themselves in place and drinking in the soft center of John's palm as they press in and hang on.

And then it's like something akin to stepping over a cliff.

Peering into the darkness and taking in exactly what is about to happen and what could potentially follow, considering every single possibility – because Sherlock's mind is nothing if not thorough – the world in general seems to stop entirely for one long moment before opening up and pushing him over into the abyss, alone out in the empty space between want and need, finding the two could collide very easily if he simply gave in and let it take him over, let himself be vulnerable and naked and desiring, letting his basest of instincts knock him right out and trusting himself enough to come back.

No.

Wait.

Just wait.

That's not right.

That's not… it's not-

He isn't the one he's putting his faith in. He isn't trusting himself.

He's trusting someone he already trusts implicitly.

He's trusting someone he's already given so much to.

He's trusting _John_.

Beautiful, wonderful _John_.

And suddenly floundering around out here in the dark seems utterly ridiculous because Sherlock is no longer alone. He's no longer on his own, no longer a single player in this world, no longer an individual entity.

He's part of something now. He belongs somewhere now.

A team.

A partnership.

A unit.

He belongs with someone.

Sherlock Holmes _belongs_ with John Watson.

The revelation is overwhelming and comforting all at once and after that, it's simple.

And as he untangles his hand from where it's wrapped around John's and turns himself over, lips already forming the words he wants to say, mind already dropping letters into place to bring forth sentences to explain exactly what he's thinking, everything seems to go even quieter as he flips around to find deep, impossibly dark blue eyes already trained on him, the moonlight spreading over John's features just enough for Sherlock to lock his gaze, slowing his twist into something gentler, never taking his eyes off John as he settles against the pillow facing his partner, something hot scalding his belly with the fierceness in John's gaze.

In the end, Sherlock doesn't have to say anything at all.

Pink lips part in what can only be quiet surprise and then navy eyes are pooling into blackness as John reads everything he needs to know in Sherlock's features, the shock falling away into something utterly breathtaking, something soft and accepting and reassuring all at once, something that promises _I'm here._

_I'm with you._

_I want you too._

It makes Sherlock's heart do a slow roll in his chest even as his temperature spikes, watching carefully as John smiles so softly and lifts a hand to trail fingers along Sherlock's cheek, touching him with all the care in the world, caressing his sensitive body and whispering gentle strokes down the tendons of his neck, tracing the dip of his collarbone and gentling a palm down his flank and Sherlock's chest all but opens and extends his heart for John to take and hold and keep and take care of because Sherlock is no longer able to hold it inside himself with how many sizes its grown since John Watson has entered his life.

It's quiet and it's careful and it's unbelievably perfect.

A warm palm runs along Sherlock's hip, squeezing it lightly for a moment, giving pause without breaking the beautiful tension that's been building along the path of John's hand, allowing a small consideration, asking an unspoken question, blue eyes softening yet again with such aching affection, asking without patronizing, requesting without expectation of a right answer.

_Alright?_

_Can I keep going?_

_Whatever you want is completely fine._

It takes no time at all for the decision to make itself.

A nod is already shaking itself free from Sherlock's head, eyes still trained on that beautiful blond boy as he smiles back at Sherlock and drags his hand lower, caressing and stroking, detailing every inch his palm moves over with some sort of loving squeeze or soft pressure, trickling a path of sparks in its wake, burning his touch into Sherlock's skin and the genius boy welcomes the fire, welcomes the anticipation and the tenderness, shivering under the attention. John's hand feels so much bigger than it looks as it wraps delicately around the back of Sherlock's thigh and presses upward, dragging his leg up and over John's hip with such careful movement, settling Sherlock right up against his fit frame, bodies touching chests to feet, fitting together right alongside each other. John's other hand finds its way beneath Sherlock's cheek against the pillow and around to the base of his neck, fingers wrapping up into curls and tugging him forward just that extra inch just as John's hips shift to meet Sherlock's.

And the world around Sherlock Holmes promptly blurs at the edges.

Dropping his head forward on a gasp, the genius boy vibrates as his forehead presses into John's, eyes falling closed, breath hot and mingling in the space between their mouths, but Sherlock knows he sorely lacks the finesse to kiss properly as a fine shiver shimmies its way up his spine and promptly spreads to every limb, every cell, every fiber of his being as John rocks against him, answering Sherlock's aching hard-on with an impressive erection of his own, and the genius boy can't help the whimper that escapes his lips, the touch gentle and yet somehow all-consuming, making his head swim and his own hips twitch in reply.

The responding low groan that falls from the boy pressed against him makes Sherlock bite down hard on his lip, focusing on the sharp pain of the pinch and not the way the sound of John's whispered moan snaps a shock of pleasure straight down his hips and up to the tip of his cock, though he can't help the thrust of his pelvis as John's grip on him tightens, holding Sherlock as close as possible.

It's silent in the room and yet Sherlock's head is buzzing with all kinds of input as he loses himself to a slow and steady push and pull of John's body against his, Sherlock's own long fingers curling into John's t-shirt and hanging on for dear life as another spark of pleasure ricochets around his insides making him tremble with the effort not to cry out loud into the quiet, not wanting to shatter the sweetness of only his and John's panting breathes mingling together in the dark.

Fingers at the base of his neck move up into his curls, stroking finger pads along his sensitive skull, gentling between follicles with slow, deliberate circles as the hand on his thigh pulls, bringing him further to the point of no return, the insistence of John's arousal a constant press against his own and Sherlock is struggling to breathe, struggling to stay afloat of all the emotions currently crashing down around him.

It's stunning the way their bodies move together, meeting and tensing and rolling like they'd been meant to do this all along, lips never touching as they breath each other in, the centimeters between their mouths filled with scorching breaths and damp heat, and Sherlock can feel it all along his body, feel the air that John breathes into his lungs, feel the tidal wave of pleasure engulf him as John guides him carefully into bliss.

And when he finally lets himself go under, the world tilts around him but John stays perfectly at the center, never going out of focus, blue eyes never leaving his, fingers tightening into ringlets and around thighs and Sherlock _shudders_ and comes with abandon, pulsing along the crease of his boxer shorts and rocking harder, a soft cry escaping his lips as the sensation rolls through him.

And just as he thinks he may be coming down from what can only be described as a high, the body against his pulls taught and Sherlock watches, Sherlock _gets_ to watch as John's blue eyes go a bit hazy before falling closed, his hips stuttering before thrusting up hard in one long snap, and he shakes a bit, breaths quivering out in random intervals as he follows Sherlock down, his orgasm positively beautiful just like John and Sherlock grabs onto any part he can of that stocky, fit body so he can _feel_ John's pleasure, feel the tremors and vibrations and stunning ecstasy that's written all over his face.

And Sherlock no longer thinks.

God, how could he even question it before, how could he even wonder if it were true or not.

No, he knows.

He knows for certain.

He loves this boy in his arms. He loves John Watson more than anything in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SO APPRECIATE ALL OF YOU WHO HAVE WAITED FOR THIS DAMN CHAPTER FOR AGES!! I'm so sorry it took me forever, I went through kind of an intense rough patch the past few months so I appreciate those of you who stuck out the long haul for this <3 I love all of you beautiful readers and I can't thank you enough for supporting my work! XO!
> 
> We're having a constant lovefest on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come join in!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: NSFW content in this chapter! (It's polite to warn about that right? Even if it's like probably the majority of why we're all here in the first place?)
> 
> _As per usual: THANK YOU TIMES A MILLION to my darling wonderful ishaveforsherl! If any of you are ever wondering what keeps me writing, it's this babe right freakin here, she gives me ideas, brainstorms with me and generally improves my life daily. I LOVE YOU MADLY!! Also special thank you to my writing buddy awkwardtiming who always sends the simplest yet most inspiring text messages: "Writing tonight?" "Writing tomorrow?" "When are we writing?" I have no idea what I'd do without you both. LOVE YOU!_  

In a very short amount of time, John Watson has become accustomed to many luxuries.

He's become accustomed to waking up with dark curly hair tickling his cheek.

He's become accustomed to a heated body cuddling close and keeping him warm.

He's become accustomed to sleepy smiles and big yawns and long limbs stretching idly.

He's become accustomed to a thin, pale, beautiful genius boy waking up in his bed.

John Watson has become accustomed to all of this, essentially expecting it now, looking forward to it every single time he opens his eyes after a long night's sleep.

So, the fact that not only did he get exactly none of it this morning, but said genius boy is exactly nowhere to be found and, quite frankly, John Watson is a bit put out.

Being denied a Sherlock Holmes first thing in the morning is rather upsetting and the rugby player is a bit irked that he's having to endure it.

Where _is_ his roommate?

Glaring at the pillow plumped beside his currently glowing in the soft morning light that normally glitters along Sherlock's sharp cheekbones, John snuggles down under his covers and pouts, scowling into the empty space at his side and trying not to let that sliver of worry worm its way into his thoughts and consume him considering this will be their first morning together since , ahem, _moving forward in their relationship_ \- or any other diplomatic way of saying _getting each other off_ \- and Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

Honestly, this morning etiquette is just not on. Waking up cold and alone and _wanting_ is not sitting well in John Watson's stomach. He burrows further into the blankets, already on his way to feeling epically sorry for himself and hoping desperately that last night hadn't scared his lover away completely.

He's still frowning into white cotton sheets when the handle of the door rattles in the silence of John's sulk and said door opens just a tad wide enough for a skinny curly-haired boy to slip through, and well, John really can't be blamed for jerking upward and swiveling around, eyes wide and slightly panicked at being startled.

" _Sherlock_ ," he breathes in a rush, pressing a palm to his racing heart and exhaling his fright and, honestly, his _relief_ to find his partner hasn't skipped out on him.

The genius boy freezes as the door closes behind him looking alarmed, seeming stunned into place like maybe if he stays still long enough John will forget he's there, before he recovers enough to quietly mutter, "Er- hello." He's clutching a wad of clothing in his hands and hurriedly tosses them into his open closet door before shuffling back over to the bed and climbing in beside John. "How are you?"

Grinning as his boyfriend's warm body finally presses up against his like it always should be at this time in the morning, John props himself up on his elbow and leans over the gorgeous boy in his bed, watching in fascination as Sherlock's curls fan out along the white pillowcase. "I'm better now that you're back," John whispers, leaning down to drop a kiss to Sherlock's plump cupid's bowed lips, sneaking a hand beneath the genius boy's head and into those silky ringlets.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmurs against his mouth, scooting closer. "I went to the loo."

"Hm," John says, unimpressed with this excuse, laying a kiss to the corner of the seam of Sherlock's lips. "I don't like waking up alone."

"I tried to hurry before you woke," Sherlock whispers, breath hitching as John's mouth trails down his neck.

"Well I suppose I can forgive you," John grins, snaking a leg between Sherlock's spreading thighs and rolling on top of him, trailing a finger along the genius boy's hairline. "But for future reference, I very much hate waking up without you. I've become quite keen on greeting the mornings with you in my arms."

He's not sure when he's become so sappy but this boy whom he currently has bundled up in his bed, tucked cozily beneath the covers is staring up at him with a wide, trusting, beautiful gaze and John just wants to shower him in affection and tenderness, keep him warm and doe-eyed and happy as ever.

Sherlock's long fingers squeeze John's biceps where he's holding on. "I'm sorry," he whispers, looking genuinely apologetic and reaching for more forgiveness kisses.

"Next time, you'll know better," John raises a teasing eyebrow and relents into a deep, healthy snog, snuggling his hips down between Sherlock's thighs and settling in. Knees pull up and bracket his waist and John reaches down to wrap his arms around the boy beneath him going a bit rough around the words as he tugs Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth.

"Me too," Sherlock replies just as gravelly, arms winding around John's neck and bringing him as close as he can. "I can't say the same for my poor pants though."

Snorting and reaching down to grab a handful of that tight little arse, John notes the different texture in cloth and grins. "Oh dear," he croons, dragging his nose along Sherlock's cheek and smirking when in return his boyfriend moans softly. "Did I leave you a little sticky?"

"Yes," Sherlock murmurs petulantly, though his grip tightens on John's shoulder blades and his hips tip gently upward.

"My deepest apologies, love." It's not difficult to give in and press himself down in a slow grind, groaning in response to his lover's whimper. "I promise I'll clean you up next time."

"Yeah," Sherlock mumbles distractedly, more focused on the placement of John's pelvis against his own, running a hand down John's back to grip him by the hip, biting down on his bottom lip as John nudges forward and does practically a full body roll against that slender, warm boy beneath him. " _Oh_ yeah," the genius gasps.

"Mm, looks like that next time is now?" John growls against Sherlock's ear, licking against the cartilage delicately and grinning in delight as a shiver races down Sherlock's frame.

"Yes," Sherlock moans, tucking his face into John's neck and hanging on as John rocks them.

Warmth spreads rapidly down the blond boy's spine as his clothed cock slides into place beside Sherlock's, rubbing up and down and causing tingly sparks of pleasure to dance along beneath his skin, crackling with fire as Sherlock pants breathily in his ear, participating fully in the grinding, grasping a handful of John's t-shirt and sliding another hand into his hair, holding him as close as possible, giving himself over to John's ministrations entirely.

It makes John ache all over with such affection for the curly-haired genius below him, watching him tossing all inhibitions out the window and letting himself be vulnerable in John's presence. It's only the second time they've been this close with such obvious intentions and it makes John a little dizzy with arousal, the sound of Sherlock breath against his ear forcing goose pimples to race up along his skin. It's so unbelievably sexy, this brilliant boy holding on to John like he trusts him implicitly to bring him something incredible.

John's heart beats against his ribcage just a bit harder as he takes in his boyfriend offering himself to John to pleasure and be pleasured, and John…. Christ, John just _loves_ this boy-

"JOHNNY! OI JOHNNY WATSON RISE AND SHINE!"

The soft, pliant body beneath him goes rigid in an instance, freezing every muscle in his body that had only just been responding to John's beautifully, arms and legs clutching John to him in some sort of death grip. "What the-"

Three quick raps on the door cut Sherlock's panicked words off, followed with a, "Hellooooo! Johnny, wake up! Time for practice!"

The limbs around him slacken and Sherlock rears back as far as he can against the pillow, eyes comically dinner plate-sized and edging into irritated, lips parted in shock. "Is that _Mike_?!"

The outrage is adorable, Sherlock clearly quite offended by the notion that Mike Stamford would have the audacity to interrupt his private time getting off with John Watson.

And go help him, he knows he shouldn't, he _knows_ better but it's just too good, it's just a bit too much and John can't help himself.

He bursts out laughing.

"How is this _funny_?" Sherlock demands in a harsh whisper, unwinding himself entirely and pouting as best he can beneath John's shaking frame.

"Oh my god," John chuckles, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's rapidly reddening cheek, attempting and aborting to drop a kiss to his boyfriend's jaw. "What is going on right now? What a wanker."

"This is not funny," Sherlock tries to deny, words breaking on his own laughter, but he fights it, refusing to join in on the laughing fit with John. "This is _absurd_!"

"JOOOOHNNYYYY!" Mike sings against the door like the obnoxious fool that he is while knocking incessantly. "GET UUUUU-UUUUP!"

"I'm going to kill you!" John shouts back with no bite at all, still giggling on top of the affronted boy in his bed. "Shut the fuck up!"

"I knew you were up!" Mike cries in triumph. "See? I knew he'd be up."

"Yeah, congratulations," Paul's muffled reply comes from behind the wooden frame before another bellowed good morning is shouted through the door. "GET UP BOY-O! We gotta go!"

"Well _clearly_ they aren't going away any time soon," Sherlock glares up at John, though the rugby player doesn't miss the glimmer of mirth dancing along the lines of his eyes. "You might as well get up and go."

"No way," John shakes his head with a grin. "I'm spending the weekend with you, remember?" He rolls away just enough to shout back at the door with it landing directly in Sherlock's face, "Go away! There is no practice and it's a bye week for christsake!"

"Isn't every week a _bi_ -week for you, Johnny Boy?" Mike calls back, promptly falling into laughter at his own joke, smacking a palm against the door. "God, I'm funny."

"Funny lookin', maybe," Paul counters before pounding a fist against the door. "Come on John, up you get! We were instructed not to leave here until you get your arse up and come with us!"

"Instructed by _who_ exactly?!" John demands back, snickering quietly at the offended glare his boyfriend shoots him, clearly none too pleased by not only John's participation in this situation but the fact that he's doing nothing but egging it on.

"BY OUR FEARLESS LEADER OF COURE!" Mike shouts back much louder than actually necessary which makes even Sherlock crack a smile. "NOW COME _ON_!"

"This is stupid," Sherlock grumbles, wiggling down further under the covers and subsequently further beneath John, severe sulk prepped and ready to sink all the way in as the door continues to rattle with random fist poundings and hard smacks of palms.

"Johnny!"

_Knock knock_

"Jooooohnnyyyyyy!"

_Knock knock knock knock._

"Johnny Boy!"

_Knock knock knock._

"Come on Johnny!"

_Knock BANG BANG knock knock_

"JOHNNY!"

"Christ almighty, ALRIGHT!" John snaps as his shoulders shake with laughter, dropping a kiss to his pouting genius' forehead and rolling out of bed, snagging his rugby warm-up sweats out of his drawer and pulling them on before storming toward the door.

"John, what are you _doing_?" Sherlock hisses, watching all of John's movements from where he's still buried beneath the comforter, sneaking down even further until only his eyes and curls are visible.

"I'm taking care of these tossers," John lobs back with a grin as he ties the front of his sweats snuggly and reaches for the door handle.

"But I'm _in here_!" Sherlock's eyes widen worriedly and somehow slinks even further under the blankets without disappearing altogether.

John cocks his head to the side in confusion. "So? They know you live here."

"Yeah but -" Sherlock cuts himself off to pull the blankets tighter around him as if to hide beneath them. "But I'm in _your_ bed. And… and _indecent_."

The grin that spreads across John's face is probably not appropriate for the situation but he really cannot help himself, not when his boyfriend is being so bloody shy and precious and _adorable_. He raises a knowing eyebrow and smirks down at his lover. " _Indecent_ , huh?"

"I- well- just-" Sherlock fumbles for a retort before huffing in irritation. "Just don't open the door!"

"Bury yourself a little more under the covers and they'll never know you're here," John whispers, laughing as Sherlock gives him one last solid glare before tossing the blankets all the way over his head.

"You're a ridiculous human being, do you know that?" he tells the lump in his bed, who doesn't deign to reply giving John the all clear that Sherlock has officially gone into hiding. Shaking his head, he turns back to his task at hand and pulls open the door.

And promptly dodges getting a fist to the face as Mike's knuckles come flying at him, obviously not realizing there is no longer a door for him to be banging on. "Jesus, watch it, Mike!"

"Johnny!" Mike cheers in triumph and slaps a hand to Paul's back. "We got him up!"

"Is that what you're wearing?" Paul raises his brows skeptically with a critical eye up and down John's frame. "It's freezing out. And you'll definitely need some shoes."

"Hang on just a minute here," John shakes his head as Mike and Paul both seem poised to head right back out the way they came with John in tow. "Seriously, it's our week off. Why am I being dragged out of bed on a Saturday morning?"

"Captain's orders," Mike replies quickly, shooting a quick glance at Paul before continuing. "Says we've got to go at least toss the ball around a bit even if it's an off day. Now come _on_."

"And why am I just hearing about this now?" John crosses his arms over his chest and leans his shoulder against the door, not going anywhere until he gets the full story, not missing the way Paul and Mike exchange mischievous little glances at every question.

"Last minute decision, Johnny," Paul sniffs as though this information is irrelevant. "Seriously, everyone is waiting for us out on the pitch."

"And if I don't go?" John raises a challenging brow.

"Then you'll be deemed absolutely no fun at all and we'll never invite you anywhere ever again," Mike says with a firm nod, eyes dancing with a joke but refusing to let his lips twitch.

Rolling his eyes and chuckling, John shrugs. "Okay, I _guess_ I will go. But I can't be out all day, I've got plans."

"Oh right," Mike shakes his head as if reminding himself of something important, takes one step around John and leans into his dorm room without actually stepping over the threshold, pointedly peering in toward John's side of the room and sings, "Goooood _morning_ , Sherlock! Get outta bed darling, you are coming to practice today!"

Silence follows and Mike grins a knowing little thing at John before cooing again, "Sherlock Hoo-oolmes!"

"You know I'm usually just embarrassed for him but today I am embarrassed for us all having to witness this," Paul shakes his head fondly and John laughs. "Come on Mike, leave the poor bloke alone."

"Sherrrrrlooooock!" Mike says again, huffing as his antics are yet again not met with a reply.

"I'll rouse him," John puts a hand on Mike's shoulder and chuckles. "He's just-"

"SHERLOCK HOLMES! Don't make me come in there and pull the covers off you because you _know_ that I will!" Mike bursts out suddenly and sharply, making both John and Paul jump and promptly fall into laughter beside him.

Which is of course when Sherlock peeks his curly head out from beneath the comforter and offers one serious glare at the three boys in the doorway. "Oh god, _fine_. If it will get you all out of here, then I will come with."

Mike breaks into a wide grin and nods his head enthusiastically. "I knew you'd see things my way! Now come on!"

"We will meet you there," John says with a shove to his teammate's chest and a wave toward the exit. "We need to get dressed."

"I'll bet you do," Mike waggles his eyebrows and winks like the pervert he is before Paul is shoving him back toward the way they came. "Okay but if it takes longer than fifteen minutes, I will be back here -" Mike warns with a wag of his finger before John slams the door in his face and cuts him off. "RUDE!" Mike shouts, though John can hear both he and Paul laughing all the way down the hallway.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair and still smiling, John turns back to find his boyfriend sitting up on his knees, covers pooled around his hips and legs, curls flung this way and that adorably, eyes sleepy and small, little pools of quicksilver peeking out from heavy lids. "Well that was unpleasant," he says grumpily, looking for all the world like an annoyed cat woken from its afternoon nap.

And just like that John's heart is bursting with so much fondness it's making it hard to breathe, watching this precious boy grumble around in his bed, tired eyes soft and sweet, chaotic ringlets all over the place and John just can't help himself, making his way over to the genius boy and gathering him up in his arms, sliding Sherlock on his knees to the edge of the bed where John is standing, pressing them chest to chest, and John buries his face in Sherlock's neck.

"Oh," Sherlock huffs in surprise before John can feel him sag into the embrace, wrapping his own arms around John's neck and petting a hand through his hair, apparently deciding not to ask questions about the sudden affection and choosing to enjoy it instead.

"You'll come with me, won't you?" John murmurs against his skin, dropping kisses to his collarbone, loathing the idea of leaving Sherlock at all this weekend and quietly grateful for Mike inviting him along so John doesn't have to be away from him. He's feeling a bit needy today after the intensity of what they shared the night before and the idea of leaving his lover behind today is just really not on.

There is a beat of silence, the snuggling continuing on as though John hadn't spoken, neither boy apparently willing to let go, the need to be close consuming them both.

"Would you like me to?" Sherlock finally replies just as quietly, stroking fingers down John's spine, circling every vertebra carefully as he goes.

"Yes please," John says in return, giving the boy in his arms a gentle squeeze he hopes says what he is a bit afraid to for fear of being an over-the-top sap.

_I don't want to be without you today._

_I don't want to be without you ever._

"Alright," Sherlock agrees readily, pressing his lips to John's temple. "But I'm not tackling or being tackled by anyone and I refuse to participate in any muddy activities."

"You're fine with blowing things up in our room and covering yourself in unknown chemicals but mud is where you draw the line," John laughs, untangling himself from Sherlock and finding a rugby t-shirt and a hoodie to pull on.

"There is nothing scientific about covering oneself in mud for the simple reason of chasing after a ball," Sherlock replies airily, rolling out of bed and finding his own clothing to change into which, to John's utter surprise, end up being a pair of black track pants and a simple grey long-sleeve shirt.

Catching his lingering gaze, Sherlock furrows his brow. "What?"

"Nothing," John shakes his head with a grin. "I just wasn't aware that you owned a pair of trousers that weren't perfectly fitted and posh as hell."

"You know my clothes aren't actually that nice, right?" Sherlock replies in annoyance, yanking his shirt on over top his sleep shirt and turning around to rummage through his closet. "You make a far bigger deal about them than necessary."

That may be true. Sherlock doesn't wear fancy brands or expensive accessories, though John has a sneaky feeling he'd like to. It's more about how Sherlock bloody _looks_ in his clothes. Everything fits him beautifully, the long lines of his frame always accentuated so stunningly, his striking features always standing out nicely against blues and greens and purples and greys, the gorgeous plains of his chest and back always draped to precision.

Maybe John gives more credit to Sherlock's clothes than he ought to, considering it's really _Sherlock_ that makes the items on his body look high-class and grand.

It seems a bit corny to go on and on about one's lover like John does in his own head, constantly admiring Sherlock's body like the lovesick fool that he is, so John continues with his original thought out loud while privately vowing to show Sherlock how beautiful he is every day.

"They're nicer than anything _I've_ ever seen," John amends, sitting down on his bed to lace up his shoes. "Plus you look nice in them and it makes them look nicer than they actually are."

"Hmph," is Sherlock's muffled reply as he pulls free his own pair of athletic shoes out of his closet and drops down on the floor to put them on.

John doesn't miss the pink hue crawling up his genius' neck.

"You're going to be cold in just that." John nods down at Sherlock's thin t-shirt then pointedly looks out the window into the greyness hovering over campus.

"Nonsense," Sherlock waves his hand like being cold is absolutely no matter to him, which is probably true. "I grew up in London, I can do with a bit of rain."

"Is this a thing with you, not wearing a coat?" John asks, cocking his head pointedly at the jacket hanging off the hook of Sherlock's closet.

Shrugging uninterestedly, the genius boy stands and gives John a once over before raising a brow. "Ready?"

Rolling his eyes at the obvious sidestep of the question, John grabs his keys and nods, reaching for Sherlock's hand with a smile. "Let's do it."

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Turns out, leaving the room is exactly the worst thing John could have ever agreed to do on a day like today considering all he wants to do is peel those somehow ridiculously sexy track pants off of his boyfriend's body and tuck him back under the covers, the sight of Sherlock in perfectly tailored clothing somehow making John's mouth water while simultaneously filling him with a fierce need to carefully remove said clothing and find out what's been hiding beneath them.

"Sodding Mike," John grumbles to himself as he watches the genius boy make his way over to the benches on the sideline of the practice field where the rest of the rugby team is currently gathering, unable to take his eyes off the perfect curve of Sherlock's arse. "Sodding Mike and sodding Paul and sodding Greg."

"Ah come on, mate!" Paul appears beside John and swings an arm around his neck. "Don't be like that. This is gonna be fun!"

"Says you," John shoots back with a playful shove and roll of his eyes, noting privately in his own head that Paul didn't just have to endure being forcibly removed from his warm, cozy bed, snuggled up to a gorgeous bloke who was just gearing up to get him off.

_Goddamnit Paul_.

"Alright," Greg calls and John turns to find his captain strolling up hand-in-hand with none other than Mycroft Holmes, looking as casual as can be in a three-piece suit, a giant umbrella opened neatly over both their heads. "We're here. What's all this about then?"

John shoots a pointed at his teammates at Greg's words, narrowing his eyes on the two who had just been practically banging down his door. "I thought you said this was practice was _Captain's orders_ ," John mimics irritably, though neither Paul nor Mike look the least bit chastised. If anything, they look rather pleased with themselves.

Mike blinks over to Paul innocently. "Is that what we said?"

"Is it?" Paul cocks his head in feigned surprise, glancing up to the sky as if truly pondering the question. "Gosh, I can't recall."

"Hell no this wasn't my damn order," Greg huffs at the two of them. "It's our day off for christsake. Myc and I had brunch plans."

"Hello gentlemen," Mycroft's pinched smile greets them as he holds fast to Greg's hand and John turns just in time to see his own boyfriend's jaw drop as he comes back from the benches.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Sherlock demands with a fierce glare, coming to stand rather closely beside John like he's worried Mycroft might reach out and try to snatch one of them.

"Might I ask you the same question?" Mycroft lobs back with a brow raise.

"I was invited," Sherlock replies smugly.

"As was I," Holmes the elder retorts.

Sherlock falters for a moment before flicking his eyes up to the open umbrella with a sneer like Mycroft is the biggest idiot he's ever met. "It isn't raining."

"It will be soon," his brother replies smoothly.

This argument is patently stupid considering the sky is littered with grey clouds darkening by the second and seeing as it's rained the last four days it's a pretty good guess that it will be raining again soon, but the look on Sherlock's face tells John logic has officially become obsolete at this point, fury replacing it as the genius' cheeks redden with anger.

"Alright boys, quit posturing," Greg cuts off whatever Sherlock had opened his mouth to say next and John silently thanks his captain. "Behave yourselves."

"Alright boys," Paul calls as the rest of the team meanders over. "Gather 'round! We're so glad you all could make it!"

"We thought it was mandatory," one of the blokes calls from the small group and the rest grumble and laugh in agreement.

"Yeah, what the fuck Greg?"

"Seriously Cap, on our day off?"

"This is cruel, Cap!"

"This wasn't my brilliant idea!" Greg snaps immediately, attempting and failing not to laugh. "Why am I being blamed for dragging us all out here?"

"Well, no one was going to come if we told them it _wasn't_ mandatory," Mike shrugs like this should be obvious before he's looking around and beaming at his teammates. "So now you're all here anyway, let's play!"

"I have nothing planned for practice," Greg sighs in annoyance. "What exactly did you have in mind?" He smirks teasingly. "Trying to overthrow me as Captain, Mike?"

"No, no not _rugby_ ," Mike flicks his hand as though that assumption is absurd. " _Football_!"

There is a beat of silence before the team seems to come alive at the announcement, mumbling to each other interestedly, and John can't help but grin at that. It's been an age since he's kicked a ball around.

"Yeah, we brought you all here to play a bit of footy!" Paul says excitedly, exchanging eager glances with Mike like they'd just pulled off an incredible stunt. "Surprise!"

"Actually," Greg says looking thoughtful, a smile spreading along his lips. "That sounds like fun."

"Yes!" Mike agrees with a shout of agreement and a pointed finger in Greg's direction. "I _knew_ you'd be on board."

Paul whips back to the Holmes brothers. "And we thought you two could play, too! You know, as _significant others_ of our boys and all."

"If you're nice to each other," Greg amends, flicking meaningful gazes to each brother.

Which does nothing to deter Sherlock snorting derisively up at his sibling. "Good _god_ ," he cries mockingly, eyes wide and round and full of mean-spirited teasing. "You're going to ask _Mycroft_ , the man who loves cake more than his own family, to play _sport_ with you all?"

"Sherlock," John admonishes uselessly while also trying to keep his cool and not laugh idiotically at what was a rather poor joke, but John is finding out pretty quickly that anything Sherlock does today is going to seem funny and charming and perfect because this genius boy has caused tiny delighted little bubbles to continuously burst in John's chest and it's making his head feel light and giggly and happy.

Therefore, tact is not going to be his strong suit today.

"Strike one there, little Holmes," Greg glares, wagging a finger in the genius boy's direction, who doesn't seem affected by the scolding in the least.

"Don't worry dear brother," Mycroft rolls his eyes at the insult, looking thoroughly bored by the entire situation. "I'm simply here for moral support."

"When have you ever been supportive in your life?" Sherlock demands. "All you know how to do is be a gigantic pain in the arse."

The pointed look Mycroft volleys back is so intensely loaded, Sherlock's scowl only deepens, red cheeks flaring with anger, but he doesn't say a word, entering into some kind of furious staring contest with his older brother.

"Alright seriously," Greg grinds out between clenched teeth, protectively going to Mycroft's side like the most terrifying man John has ever met needs some sort of guard against a petty sibling spat, though he does toss a scathing look at his own boyfriend. "That's enough. You can either choose to play nice and stay or choose to continue acting like twats to each other and leave. Your choice."

"Yeah," John tries to support, feeling a bit foolish for so far doing nothing to hinder the Holmes bickering besides making doe-eyes at Sherlock and delight in his rudeness. He elbows the genius boy in the ribs and leans in close enough to whisper softly in his ear. "I'd like to spend the day with my boyfriend so I'd really prefer if he played nice with his big brother and got to stay around here to play with me."

Lips twitching with the effort not to grin, Sherlock glances down at him briefly, eyes softening into something of an adoring gaze just long enough for John's heart to do a slow, blissful roll in his chest before he's looking away again and huffing in exasperated surrender, like being nice to Mycroft is the most difficult thing he's ever had to do. "Fine."

Greg turns pointedly to his own significant other with a raised eyebrow until Mycroft concedes too. "Very well," he says with a flick of his fingers.

"Good," Greg nods, obviously pleased with himself. "Now, Sherlock do you-"

"SHERLOCK!"

All four boys whip around to find Mike planted in the center of the field, hands on his hips, grinning from ear to ear, the rest of the team fanned out around him, a few boys on either side of the field dragging out the goals the football team keeps pushed out of the way during rugby season. "Come on!" he calls, waving his arm and beckoning them onto the field. "It's game time!"

"Why does he only summon _you_?" John mutters playfully, jogging out behind Greg and Sherlock onto the field as Mycroft takes a seat at the benches. "I'm starting to wonder if I need to be jealous."

"Yes, you do," Mike grins, overhearing like the obnoxious tosser that he is. "I am madly in love with this posh git and you need to watch your back, Johnny Boy."

"Wow," John snorts. "If you weren't so terrible at announcing idiotic things like that, I might actually be worried." He glances over to find Sherlock tucking his hands in his pockets and staring resolutely at the ground, a soft pink kissing his cheeks and a tiny smile curling his lips.

God, he is precious.

"Alright, how do we split up teams?" Paul asks, smacking his hands together excitedly. "School yard picks?"

"Works for me," Greg nods with a shrug as the rest of the team murmurs with agreement.

"Greg and Johnny captains?" Mike asks the surrounding boys, all of which seem to nod without putting up any argument. "Yeah? Excellent!" Shining a pleased smile in their direction and waving them toward the front of the group, Mike clasps his hands behind his back expectantly as Greg and John step forward with a laugh.

"You want first pick, old man?" John teases, tossing a soft fist to Greg's bicep playfully.

"Nah, go on, rookie," Greg replies with a roll of his eyes before scanning to crowd of blokes up for the picking.

John chuckles before turning back, already zeroing in on exactly who he'll pick. "Alright then. I'll take-"

"Sherlock!" Greg barks, beating John to the punch spectacularly, turning to smile smugly at the blond boy.

John's mouth promptly drops open as the rest of the group bursts into jeers and whoops of excitement and _ooooh_ s like bloody school children as Sherlock ducks his head and jogs over to stand beside Greg, yelping a startled laugh when Mike gives him a smack to the arse on his way by. He snaps a horrified stare in John's direction, the twinkle in his eye giving away the fact that he's entirely comfortable in this setting with these boys he knows well now and John's insides warm at the sight.

But he can't help himself, wanting to raise just a bit of hell considering Sherlock should be on _his_ team.

"Oi, what the fuck?" John demands, tossing his hands up in the air and steadfastly ignoring Sherlock's amused eyebrow raise in his direction. "Why do you get the first pick?"

Greg's smirk holds a thousand words. "Older and wiser, Johnny Boy," he says airily. "Should have been quicker on the draw."

"Older and wiser," John mutters sarcastically. "Meaner and dumber, maybe." He subtly flicks a gaze at his boyfriend in a brief sweep for any discomfort but all he gets in return is a challenging glare and a completely relaxed Sherlock Holmes staring back at him, seeming completely calm in the situation, not needing John's protection in the least.

The confidence is sexy as hell and John can't help dropping a wink and a cheeky grin at that gorgeous bloke on the opposing team, deciding two can easily play this game of riling each other up.

"Hey, no fraternizing with the other team!" Paul shouts from the still waiting group of boys. "And no eye-fucking during football!" His words are accompanied by hollers of agreement and teasing jeers and _yeah Johnny, keep those dazzling blue eyes to yourself!_

"Fuck off," John chuckles, flinging a hand toward Mike to beckon him forward. "Come on then, get over here."

"What?!" Mike cries in mock outrage, sprinting to John's side and crossing his arms over his chest. "You're splitting up the _dream team_?!"

"Beer Pong and football aren't the same thing, Mike," John rolls his eyes. "Besides, you're getting a little grabby with my partner and I think I'd rather you be a bit further from him." He throws a grin in Sherlock's direction and the genius boy attempts to huff indignantly while simultaneously fighting off the smile curving his lips.

"But Jooooohn," Mike whinges, tossing his hands out to either side of him and waving in Sherlock's direction uncoordinatedly. " _Dream team_!"

"Stuff it," Greg hollers from his side, knocking a shoulder into a quietly giggling younger Holmes. "Maybe it's time for a _new_ dream team."

"Oh fuck that!" Mike shouts back, swinging an arm around John's shoulders, jostling him from side to side. "Team Watson is gonna be unstoppable, boys! Get fucking ready!"

Divvying up the small group of boys goes quickly after that, Paul ending up on Greg's team, sneering at John and Mike like he's already won the game.

"Fucking twat," Mike stage-whispers to John before flicking a hand to their team. "Alright boys, line 'em up! Who's on D?"

Turning in time to see a familiar tall genius jog out to center field, John grins and raises his hand. "I've got left side. Mike, you want right?"

"Let's do this, Johnny!" Mike cheers in agreement, and the team lines up eight versus eight, the atmosphere casual and fun, half the boys hardly in the correct positions, laughing and chatting as they line up, even as the clouds darken overhead.

"Everyone ready?" Greg calls from the center, football beneath his right foot as his team replies loudly, clapping and hooting and hollering like a bunch of bloody lunatics. "Alright then! Myc, love, would you do the honors of the send-off?"

"Oh for godsake," Sherlock grouses from where he stands off to the right of Greg, glaring daggers over his shoulder. "Must he? I'd all but forgotten he was here until now."

"Shut it, Sherlock," Greg reprimands with a pointed finger before turning back to his boyfriend and smiling softly, coaxingly. "Please?"

Sighing heavily like a heavy burden has just been annoyingly placed upon his shoulders, Mycroft stands from his seat on the bench, umbrella still wide open above his head. "Very well, Gregory," he says shortly, though even from here John can see his eyes soften absurdly at his significant other.

Then Mycroft promptly slides his thumb and middle finger between his lips and gives a sharp, loud whistle, startling every bloke on the field to jump before exclaiming brilliance at Mycroft's admittedly impressive skill.

"Oh please, it wasn't that great," John only just hears Sherlock grumble over the cheer as Greg starts the game, sending the ball back to his midline.

"I can't believe you're not putting up more of a fight about this," John says with a nudge to the genius boy's shoulder as Sherlock's front line matches up with John's defense in exactly the way the rugby player had planned it so he can be close to his roommate.

"I tried," Sherlock says with a roll of his. "Greg keeps cutting me off every time I'm about to get a good one in." He sneaks a glance over to the side of the field, eyeing his brother carefully. "Don't worry, though. I'm biding my time."

"Oh my god, that's most definitely _not_ what I was asking about, although that was an excellent impression of an evil genius." John can't help chuckling as Sherlock whips his head around to glare at him. "I was talking about this." He waves his hand around the field. "Football. Playing with the team. I didn't think this would be your thing."

Sherlock looks a bit offended and John's heart drops. "Why not?"

"No, I just meant… sports," John attempts and fails to save himself. "I didn't think you liked them."

"Oh," Sherlock shrugs and glances out to the field, tracking the ball carefully. "I don't. But I like the team." He turns to smile shyly at John, long lashes fluttering along his reddening cheeks as he blinks. "And I like you."

The admission itself isn't the surprise but more the fact that the admission happened at all is what gets John's stomach doing one backflip after the other, unable to tear his gaze away from his perfect boyfriend, certain he's staring like a besotted loon and still he can't bring himself to care. "I like you too," he whispers, just considering reaching out to grasp Sherlock's hand, maybe pull him close enough to lay kisses against his lips and cuddle him close.

And then Sherlock's soft features are ticking upward, eyes narrowing and face crinkling as he smirks and John only just registers the football sailing over his head and Sherlock chasing after it, and goddammit, John is far too late to catch either of them, watching in utter shock as Sherlock settles the ball at his feet, dips around Mike with a spin move and tucks the ball into the top right shelve at the back of the net, body moving like he's been playing this sport his whole life, hardly breaking a sweat.

"What the fuck?!" Mike demands, eyes gleaming with shock and awe, staring after Sherlock as the genius makes his way through the crowd of his teammates, Greg somehow the loudest of them all. "What the _fuck_ was that?!"

"You're kidding me," John glares, ignoring the way his body is heating up at the sight of his gorgeous boyfriend somehow always being surprisingly unbelievably good at everything they do together. The first night they played Beer Pong together flashes brightly in John's mind and he knows he shouldn't be smiling like he is considering his team just got scored on, but recognizing the difference between true random luck and skill in two different situations just makes John fall even harder for this boy. "You just distracted me to get a sodding goal."

"I did," Sherlock agrees as he jogs by John, dropping a wink and a smirk.

Oh, it is _so_ on.

"You played, didn't you?" John calls after him. "In secondary or something, right?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock calls over his shoulder, and John's eyes fall helplessly to that perfectly round, tight arse , moving away from him. He swallows hard, trying to figure out how he's fallen into such a wonderful situation.

" _Damn_ your boy's got some skill!" Paul hollers from the opposite side of the pitch. "No way that was beginner's luck, that's for sure."

"Yeah," Sherlock calls back, turning a pointed look at John. "And I learned how to hustle."

It takes an entire two minutes for Paul to stand up straight again from where he's doubled over laughing.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

An hour and three goals scored by Sherlock alone later is when John feels the very first wet spot on his arm. He glances down to it and looks over to find Sherlock's eyes blazing at him.

"It's raining," John glances up as tiny droplets spatter across his cheeks just as a flash of lightening brightens the dim sky.

"Yes, I realize that," Sherlock mutters, curls wilting in the wetness, face flushed a pretty shade of pink, from the cold or the running John isn't sure which. "I hate it when Mycroft is right."

"Oi, should we call it?" Paul shouts just as a crack of thunder practically vibrates the ground, the storm suddenly deciding to come on in full force.

"Never!" Mike cries back, waving his arms dramatically. "We're not going down without a fight!"

"You fought already Mikey and you're down by three," Greg laughs. "I think we should call-"

The last of his sentence is cut off just as the sky lights up once more, followed by a booming thunder, and the clouds moves ominously above them.

"Oh Christ, we gotta get inside," John turns to find Sherlock watching the sky curiously, ignoring the chaos around him, blinking against raindrops falling into his lashes. "Sherlock? We've got to go."

"Hm?" Sherlock mumbles in reply, still watching the storm swirl overhead. "Isn't it fascinating, John? I love rainstorms."

"Yes, and also unsafe," John says. "And you aren't wearing a coat. Come on, we've got to get inside."

"I want a rematch!" Mike is still hollering and everyone is still ignoring him, heading to the bench to gather up their things.

Mycroft hovers at the edge of the field, umbrella still overhead, Greg's rugby bag clutched in the other. "Do you need a ride?" he calls, the rain beginning to spatter smartly on his open umbrella.

"No!" Sherlock shouts louder than strictly necessary. "We're fine."

"Maybe we should," John murmurs as he zips up his jacket to his chin. "It's really about to start-"

"Absolutely not," Sherlock snaps, still glaring at his older brother.

"But it's going to-"

"John."

"No seriously, it's really about to-"

"John shut up-"

Another crack of thunder rattles the field, followed by a downpour of heavy raindrops as the clouds part and let them loose, beating against the ground and Mycroft's umbrella furiously.

"Fuck, _run_!" John shouts, the rain pounding down around them as John grabs Sherlock's hand, ignoring the mixed shouts of protests and agreements from the rest of the team.

"Rematch soon you wankers!" Mike yells overtop the storm but John has all but forgotten them, racing his way toward the dorm around the corner, coatless Sherlock still clutching his hand, and John can just make out his laughter over the pounding rain.

Thank god the dorm isn't too far.

"That was ridiculous," John gasps as they find their way to their room, whipping the door open and pulling Sherlock inside hastily, thanking his past self for turning the heat up a notch before they left. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"That can't be accurate," Sherlock argues breathlessly, curls no longer curling as they flatten wetly against his forehead, the grin on his face shining like the sun. "You're a uni student. Surely you've done more ridiculous things than run through a rainstorm."

"That's true," John says, turning his damp face up toward the ceiling as if considering. "I mean I did snog my bloody gorgeous roommate senseless last night. That was pretty ridiculous."

The already pink-cheeked boy in front of him goes entirely red and John warms at the sight. "Yes," Sherlock agrees, ducking his head a bit. "Pretty ridiculous."

"Good thing I'm crazy about him," John murmurs, stepping forward to tuck a wet curl behind Sherlock's ear. "Makes it a little less ridiculous, huh?"

The smile he gets in return is shy and soft and makes John's insides squirm pleasantly, before he realizes the tiny vibrations racking Sherlock's frame.

"You're shivering," John says with a frown, squatting down to grab a few towels from the drawer beneath his bed before tossing a suspicious glare at the puffy black jacket hanging against Sherlock's closet door. "Why on earth didn't you wear a coat?"

"It's a bit of rain," Sherlock replies with a flick of his wrist as though the matter is completely irrelevant, though his nonchalance is hindered a bit by the chattering of his teeth. "I'm fairly sure I'll survive."

"You could have grabbed it off the hook when we left," John scolds as he tosses the bundled towels onto Sherlock's bed. "It's sitting right there."

"It wouldn't have kept me from getting wet," Sherlock argues, narrowing his eyes at the offending coat and shaking his head. "Besides, that thing is hideous."

"Being warm isn't a fashion statement and neither is staying healthy. You'll catch cold like this you know. Your clothes are absolutely soaked through."

"Hmph," Sherlock shrugs this away, and John is entirely gratified to watch the genius boy practically squawk as John tosses a towel over his head and scrubs his damp hair. "John! Good god, I'm not a dog!"

"No but you certainly look like a drown rat," John chuckles, running the cloth back and forth gently, soaking in all the rain water he can manage. "We've got to get you dry if you don't want to be sneezing and coughing for the next week."

"Please, I don't get sick," Sherlock grumbles from beneath the fabric, though John notes his protests have died away and his shoulders have sagged just a bit, clearly enjoying having his head scratched more than he'd anticipated.

"Of course you don't," John shakes his head, patting the crown of Sherlock's head several more times before dropping the towel to the floor and grinning at his boyfriend's pink face and wild hair. "Shirt next, come on, arms up."

With a heavy, put-upon sigh, Sherlock obeys, rolling his eyes and lifting his arms above his head as though all of this is extremely tedious, staring up at the ceiling and waiting impatiently for this to be over, though John doesn't miss the way the genius boy leans toward him just slightly, trying and failing not to indulge in the attention John is paying him.

With a silent smirk and a vow to do things like this more often, John slips his fingers beneath the hem of Sherlock's t-shirt and slides it upward, gently tugging free where the cotton sticks to Sherlock's damp skin, the wet fabric wrinkling itself on its journey and gathering into John's hands, dripping lightly and momentarily getting stuck in Sherlock's curls before John's efforts free it from its trap, gathering it up and off Sherlock's hands and falling in a puddled heap on the floor.

And that's when John realizes his great miscalculation.

That's when John realizes just how utterly unprepared he'd been when deciding to remove Sherlock Holmes' clothing.

That's when John realizes what he's _done_.

Damp skin vibrates as John stares, beginning to shake just a bit harder with uneven breaths, a thin but fit belly quivering with the effort of inhaling and exhaling, soft pink cascading from neck to naval into cherry red as Sherlock full body blushes beneath John's scrutiny, the rain water having minimal effect on the reaction John is currently witnessing and possibly causing but Christ he can't look away, he can't stop bloody staring at this beautiful boy shirtless for the first time before him, reddening and going redder by the second as John admires him.

"You're gorgeous," John whispers, more to himself than anything else, breathing the word helplessly as his gaze trails along soft skin and defined muscles, surprised at how strong Sherlock looks despite his slender frame, his collarbones standing out as sharply as his cheekbones, though the lines of his arms define his biceps distinctly, two pink, pebbled nipples placed perfectly atop either pectoral, the dip between them chasing itself down his front from the hollow of his throat to the sparse hairs trailing beneath his belly button outlining his figure perfectly.

Sherlock Holmes is truly gorgeous.

He's solid and sturdy and, Jesus, _durable_ if there was ever a time to think that and John wants to touch him desperately, wants to feel every line, every divot, every _part_ of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson fucking _wants_.

The hitched breath is what snaps John out of his reverie, eyes skating up along a long neck John could devote hours to laying gentle kisses against, and falling to the cupid's bowed lips that gasp had just fallen from, John blinks at those beautifully red lips before reaching crystal blue eyes staring down at him.

And the breath John thought he had held safe in his chest promptly rushes out of him, knocking him off center a bit as he takes in the silent _longing_ in that stunning gaze.

"You too," Sherlock manages to croak, fingers reaching out helplessly to run down the front of John's t-shirt, the touch brief but still so achingly gentle it makes John's heart hurt a little. "Take yours off too."

If John Watson didn't know any better, didn't know the quietly wanting boy before him, didn't know the tender yet guarded heart beneath that narrow but solid chest currently begging for his attention, he may have taken pause. He may have stopped, taken a breath, double checked if all was okay, if Sherlock was certain. He may have stepped away, maybe even left the room, let them both think this through before moving forward, chosen his next move very carefully.

But last night, _god_ , last night they'd gotten through that part, hadn't they? They'd discussed it and they'd settled it and then Sherlock had turned to him in bed, _their_ bed, with desire burning bright in his eyes and they'd said everything they needed to say with their hands and mouths and bodies and there wasn't a need to stop them now. There was no question.

They were trusting each other implicitly. Giving themselves over to one another with promises in their touches and conviction in their kisses and there was no longer a question. The questions had been asked and answered and sworn upon and taken to heart and now here they are, at the next step, and god almighty is John ready to take it.

Without a word, John unzips his wet jacket and shrugs out of it before he tugs his shirt up and over his head, the battle much easier to fight with a dry fabric, and drops his shirt beside Sherlock's, eyes never leaving the genius boy's as he takes a step closer, watching for any sign of distress, anything other than pure, unadulterated want currently pooling in light blue eyes, but it never comes, nothing ever deters the fiery focus in Sherlock's gaze currently taking in all of John's body shamelessly.

The stare is so intense it makes John's chest feel hot and he can't keep his hands to himself any longer, reaching up and tracing a finger along a clavicle, reveling in the feel of Sherlock's breastbone rising and falling beneath John's touch, the boy's breaths coming quicker and uneven, and John can't deny him or himself any longer, sliding his palm up along the side of Sherlock's neck and pulling him closer, dropping his lips to Sherlock's bare shoulder with soft, adoring kisses, trailing his tongue up to the curly-haired boy's ear, tasting rain water and sweat and something so simply Sherlock it makes John moan quietly.

" _Oh_ ," Sherlock gasps, strong hands finding John's hips and pulling him close, pressing bare skin to bare skin, shooting tingling sparks along John's nerves and a groan out of his mouth, lips closing along Sherlock's neck and sucking gently. "John I-… I absolutely stand by what I said last night."

"Oh yeah?" John grins as Sherlock's hands roam along his flanks. "What's that, then?"

"About your body," Sherlock murmurs, fingers continuing their journey down along John's pectorals and abdominals, nails lightly grazing along his skin as gentle as can be as though the genius boy is terrified if he presses too hard, John may disappear altogether. "You… you are _exquisite_."

The compliment slips breathlessly out of Sherlock's mouth and directly into John's chest, causing his heart to skip a beat and his breath stutters, making John want to bury his face in Sherlock's shoulder and hide his blush as the pleasure and bone-deep sincerity of his boyfriend's words sweep through his frame, goose-pimples racing out along his skin like wildfire.

"I don't think that's quite what you said last night," John jokes weakly, a soft chuckle hitching on a gasp as Sherlock's fingers find their way along the rigid of his abdominals. "You've seen me shirtless before, you know."

"Yes, but not like this," Sherlock shakes his head and pinches his eyebrows in clear disagreement as though John's comment is absolutely preposterous. "Not when we… not in this capacity. I never…" His thought trails off as his thumb outlines one of John's nipples reverently. "I never got to _touch_ before."

Sparks dance beneath John's skin under Sherlock's careful, lovely caresses, spreading along each of his nerve endings, across his limbs and right down to his groin, making his eyelids flutter. "Touch all you like," John whispers, allowing himself to indulge in the attention this beautiful boy is paying him.

A pink tongue sneaks out from between cupid's bowed lips to trace a concentration pattern, Sherlock's laser focus never wavering as he observes and exams and _feels_ every inch John has exposed and somehow that's absolutely all John can handle as his own fingers itch to touch. Sliding a hand up into inky, soft, still damn curls, John pulls that gorgeous mouth back down to his, ignoring the weightless protest of Sherlock's observation ending and tugging a pouty lower lip into his mouth.

A pouty, _chilled_ lower lip.

"You're freezing cold, love," John murmurs, massaging the base of his lover's skull soothingly. "Can I put you in bed?"

"Will you come with?" Sherlock replies just as softly, tucking his face into the juncture where John's shoulder meets his neck and sighs reverently. "Because if so, then yes."

"Of course," John says again in a gentle tone, refusing to break this tender moment of touching and curiosity and stunning affection, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's and pulling him toward the opposite side of their small room, leading him toward the still rumpled covers of their bed, still attempting to keep him close and kiss him on the short journey.

"John," Sherlock whispers as his hip bumps against the mattress, stalling their movements just short of tumbling onto the covers.

"Yes?" John murmurs in reply, pulling back enough to look him in the eye but still keeping his hands on Sherlock.

"I-" the genius boy starts and stops, mouth opening and closing once before he stops trying altogether and watches John carefully, removing his hands from John's and reaching down to touch the button on his trousers with clear intent. "Is it… yeah?"

"Yes," John breathes, watching with nothing short of joy as Sherlock unbuttons his trousers and lets them drop to the floor before kicking them aside, revealing a pair of dry, snug, black boxer briefs hugging the curves of his thighs and arse perfectly, the bulge at the front of his pants thick and obvious and beautiful, framed prettily by the v of sharp hipbones disappearing beneath dark silk.

John's mouth _waters_ at the sight, his own cock jumping in his pants and throbbing in sympathy, the cut and shape of every inch of Sherlock's body so exquisite it should be illegal, every line and dip seemingly placed strategically to send every nerve in John's body into a scattered mess, heating themselves to unhealthy temperatures and begging to be pressed against this gorgeous boy immediately.

"John?" Sherlock's voice quivers with uncertainty, asking so many questions with that single word and John's libido promptly takes a back seat for the time being as he glances up to find searching, panicked eyes on him, the boy in front of him looking exposed and vulnerable and terrified and John's heart all but bursts open, flooding his insides with warmth and tenderness and need for Sherlock Holmes, instincts kicking in and reminding him he needs to take care of this precious being before him.

"Seriously, love," John whispers, laying a hand to Sherlock's chest and feeling the wild thump of a frantic pulse against his palm. "Absolutely gorgeous."

Wide eyes soften immediately at the attention, a small smile curving the cupid's bow of Sherlock's mouth into something quietly pleased albeit still a bit nervous, blue irises flicking back and forth between John's in some sort of search for comfort before his stiff shoulders finally relax and his resolve becomes clear.

He runs a thumb along the waistline of John's rugby sweats and bites his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth for a long moment before dropping his gaze and offering a shy nod down toward John's hips as blood rushes into the capillaries of his cheeks. "You next?"

"Fuck yes," John can't quite keep himself from blurting out, offering an apologetic smile when Sherlock chuckles softly, glancing up beneath his dark eyelashes to grin at his boyfriend and John's knees nearly give out at the _heat_ in that gaze, the look so sultry and so obviously unintended it somehow makes it even sexier.

Managing quick work of his pants, making Sherlock laugh again at his obvious urgency, John takes the initiative to gently push Sherlock toward the bed and guide him down, staying close and attentive, though the laughing boy in his arms calms his worries to a dull roar in the back of his mind, his own grin unable to stay away as he lays Sherlock out in his bed and sidles up to his side, pressing his chest to a sharp shoulder and propping himself up on his elbow, cheek falling to the palm of his hand as he gazes down at his lover.

"Christ, I love it when you laugh," John giggles, unable to keep himself from laying a kiss to Sherlock's temple and a hand to his chest, feeling the rumblings of joy still rolling out of pink lips.

"Keep shimmying out of your trousers at break-neck speeds and I will keep laughing," Sherlock chuckles, wrapping long fingers around John's bicep to steady himself as he grins.

"Oi, they were wet," John tries to counter a ridiculous argument, ignoring the snort that Sherlock offers in return. "I wanted to get out of them."

"I see," Sherlock nods with feigned seriousness, laughter ebbing away. "Just wanted to get into bed in only your pants because you're cold? And not because…" he waves his hand vaguely around near his hips and John's hips and then promptly blushes a fetching shade of maroon realizing he either doesn't have an ending to his joke or he does and he's too embarrassed to actually voice it.

It's adorable and John takes pity on him immediately, chuckling softly as he leans down for soft kisses against pretty lips. "And not because I wanted to be in bed nearly naked with my sexy boyfriend?" he finishes for the bright red boy beneath him, only letting him suffer for a moment longer before John wraps an arm around his waist, pressing his own erection into Sherlock's hip and groaning helplessly. "That's _exactly_ why."

A gasp leaves Sherlock's lips and then he's surging upward, wrapping a hand into John's hair and bringing him down to deepen their kisses, curly hair pressing deeper into the pillow as John pries his mouth open and tastes Sherlock's delicious mouth, rolling and seeking out Sherlock's tongue, the flavors all different and yet the same today, still delicious, still intoxicating.

And god John cannot keep his hands off this gorgeous body against his, cannot stop his hand from roaming along Sherlock's flank, up and down his side and around to his stomach and then up again to his chest, fingers mapping out every line, every dip, and part of Sherlock Holmes, another part he's agreed to share with John, another barrier broken between them, another level of trust exchanged and cherished.

Christ, John wants to worship Sherlock at the altar, show him exactly how beautiful he is, how John's dreamt of seeing him like this for ages, how no matter what happens, John will love and adore him for all time.

Sherlock Holmes is _stunning_.

Hips roll with every pass of John's hand along Sherlock's naval, jumping and attempting to catch the interest of that gentle touch, seeking some sort of attention accompanied by a soft hitch of breath with every twitch.

Pulling back just a bit and slowing deep, heated kisses to quiet exchanges of pressing lips, John trails his fingers along Sherlock's sternum, memorizing the plains of the genius boy's chest before following the line of his abdominals down to his naval, trickling a thumb through the sparse hairs beneath it and tracking it down to the waistband of Sherlock's pants.

"John," Sherlock gasps and John opens his eyes to find bright blue staring back at him, hooded and dark and pleading, that pretty lower lip threatening to pout if attention is not given where attention is due. A quiet whine falls just over top of it and John can't take it anymore, deciding he's been given all the go-ahead he needs and he sweeps his tongue back between those damp lips, desperate and wanting and John doesn't wait another second before he dips his fingers beneath black elastic.

The reaction is immediate and unbelievably erotic.

Warm liquid greets his fingertips where the genius boy's cock sits heavy and leaking against his lower belly and Sherlock arches into the touch wantonly, a quiet cry falling into John's mouth like some sort of prayer and John moans in return as he tastes it, unbelievably satisfied that kissing John and a simple touch has reduced Sherlock to such a state.

But that's absolutely nothing compared to the weight of Sherlock as John wraps his fingers around the head of the genius boy's erection and _feels_ him.

"Oh," Sherlock whispers against his lips, no longer able to keep up the pace of slow kisses and hovering just along John's lips, panting against his mouth for a long moment. "O-oh _god_."

_Jesus_.

John opens his eyes and pulls back to look at the boy beneath him, double check to make sure all is well, and what he finds is so utterly breathtaking John has to take a moment.

Flushed cheeks burn beneath closed eyelids, Sherlock's curls still a bit damp and stuck to his forehead. His lips are parted on a gasp and John wants to take a picture of him and keep it forever, bloody hell, never ever wanting this look to leave Sherlock's face, and John takes a quiet breath and gives one single slow stroke, downward and then upward, squeezing enough to keep good pressure while still hoping not to overwhelm the boy.

And to his utter delight, Sherlock _keens_ , stuttering out a breath and arching into the touch, snagging his bottom lip between his teeth and biting down hard, the reaction nothing short of spectacular.

God, this boy is so beautifully sensitive, the softest of touches forcing unbelievable little noises from his throat and gentle jumps of his hips, the length of his frame long and lean and spread beneath for John to touch and treat and taste.

"Christ," John whispers, the sight of Sherlock Holmes losing - no - _giving_ his control over to John so fucking incredible it makes him ache to watch. "Yeah, that's it, Sherlock."

Pale eyelids fly open at the sound of John's voice and pin him with what can only be a panicked mixed with lust gaze, crystal eyes wide and round and, good god, _worshipful_ , staring reverently up at the rugby player. "John."

"I've got you, love," John immediately soothes, smiling encouragingly as Sherlock's hand wraps around his forearm, not stopping him but simply riding the wave of John's strokes, lips opening and closing slowly like he isn't quite sure what to do with them, attempting to assemble some sort of control in the situation.

"Let it go," John says, pressing a kiss to his lover's flushed cheek, hoping to convey that he does not need to have control, that he can absolutely lose all sense of propriety when he's with John like this.

John will take care of him.

John will _always_ take care of him.

"I've got you. I've always got you."

The look of terror calms under John's words and Sherlock relaxes slightly into John's ministrations, never taking his eyes off him.

It's slow and quiet and everything John would want for his beautiful boyfriend's first time having this done to him, Sherlock's worried stare finally softening to something so hazy and blissful it makes John's own cock dampen the front of his pants. His lids grow heavy as he slowly rolls his hips up into John's fist and moans helplessly, blinking nothing but lust up in John's direction.

"You're perfect," John whispers down to him, unable to stop himself from showering Sherlock in praise, the sight of him like this causing John's heart to lurch and his groin to pulse at the vision of how stunning his boyfriend truly is, almost pained by the joy of knowing Sherlock belongs to him wholeheartedly. "Go on, baby. Let me see."

Clear irises darken to sparkling blue, practically flashing with something bright and honest and true just for a split second, then with a gasp Sherlock comes, fingers clamping down where he's holding onto John, breaths stuttering unevenly as his hips buck up again and again, gaze never leaving John's, the heat and intensity not cooling in the least as the shivers racking Sherlock's frame come to a close, his body twitching a bit with after shocks.

" _Fuck_ ," John mutters breathlessly, dipping down to slip his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, the sight of him letting go just for John and John alone making the rugby player feel fuzzy and warm and overwhelmingly pleased. "Oh, love," he whispers, sliding his hand carefully out of Sherlock's pants and gripping his boxer-clad hip, cradling the genius boy's cheek with his other hand and gentling his lips against Sherlock's, humbled a bit by this brilliant boy giving himself to John to take care of, trusting him with so much.

"Mmm," Sherlock hums under the attention drowsily, putting in minimal effort to return soft kisses but seeming happy just to be tended to, turning a bit further into John's space and cuddling close, basking in John's affection.

And then a long-fingered hand is closing around John's erection through his boxer shorts and a strangled, startled cry is bursting from his mouth. "Oh!" John gasps, hips rocking into the touch at their own accord. "O-oh _fuck_."

"Mm, you now," Sherlock grins lazily beneath him, shimmying closer for a better angle and giving a nice stroke.

"Sh-Sherlock-" John chokes, mouth falling open, completely unaware he'd been this keyed up after watching Sherlock fall to pieces. "Oh god _, oh_ baby if you keep that up, I… I won't- guh-" The last words are cut off as liquid fire swirls in John's hips at the touch of Sherlock's thumb to the head of John's cock, dipping into the wet spot along his pants.

The genius boy makes a pleased little squeak at John's reaction and tightens his grip, squeezing a bit on the downstroke and thumbing at the head on the upstroke and John is lost, swimming through a sea of pleasure brought on by his perfect boyfriend's clever hands, working him from base to tip and even with a barrier it's still fucking _incredible_.

"Oh Christ oooh Christ, Sher-lock I – … I – I –"

And then John can no longer even manage to babble as the sea overtakes him, drowning him in ecstasy as he comes along the inside of his shorts, hips stuttering into Sherlock's hand over and over, riding his pleasure out until he can't hold himself up anymore, hearing himself moan quietly as he quivers and drops his head down to the pillow, his whole body giving out as his cock gives one last pulse.

Sherlock's hand moves away and up along John's hip, stroking his bare skin softly, and John pulls him close with weak arms, tugging Sherlock's arm up and over his waist and pressing their foreheads together.

"That was lovely," Sherlock whispers, his tone sounding somehow reverent and delighted and so satisfied, pressing a kiss against John's warm cheek and snuggling in closer.

" _You_ are lovely," John murmurs, eyes closing at their own accord and humming as a curly head bumps up under his chin. "Now hush, I'm sleeping."

"It's noon, John," Sherlock mutters, though he yawns so big he squeaks and John can't help chuckling, pulling his boyfriend tight against him and dropping a kiss to the top of his head.

"Yes and you're tired and wet. Go to sleep."

"You didn't clean me off," Sherlock grumbles, though his words slur drowsily.

"How about I shower you off when we wake up?" John compromises, sinking further into the comforter and sighing happily. "Also, we're talking about the football thing later just so you know."

"What football thing?" Sherlock says around another yawn.

"Sleep now," John hushes, dragging a hand through Sherlock's damp curls. "Football and shower later."

The genius in his arms seems to consider that prospect and John smiles lazily, eyes shut tight. The silence in the room only brings sleep closer and it's only a moment before he's completely under that John hears a deep, satisfied sigh.

"Deal," Sherlock murmurs into John's chest before the rugby player is out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING DARLINGS!! I realize I've been sucking with updates but I promise promise PROMISE good things are on their way!! Thank you so much for sticking it out with me if you're still reading!
> 
> We're having a constant lovefest on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come join in! XO!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO EVERYONE! I hope you all are wonderfully well!! Sooo I know it's been an age since I've updated and I AM SO DAMN SORRY ABOUT THAT!! I feel terrible honestly, it's been a little crazy the last few months and I've just been bogged down with many a things, so I do apologize BUT! LOOK! A NEW CHAPTER FOR YOU! HOORAY! I so appreciate those of you who are still sticking it out with me through this, I am going to do my best to update more frequently and I wanna thank you very much for still reading!! 
> 
> _As per usual: THANK YOU TIMES A MILLION to my darling wonderful ishaveforsherl! I swear you keep me going all the time love, I do not know where I'd be without you, I so appreciate your support, your input, your help and your friendship every single day! XOXOXO_  

**Paul Dimmock:**  
This is too good.

 **Mike Stamford:**  
This is the best idea we've ever had.

 **Paul Dimmock:**  
This wasn't our idea.

 **Paul Dimmock:**  
But yeah, it's pretty good.

 **Greg Lestrade:**  
John has no idea.

 **Mike Stamford:**  
Not a single clue.

 **Mike Stamford:**  
It's so good

 **Mike Stamford:**  
So damn GOOD!

 **Paul Dimmock:**  
When will you be here, Mister Holmes?

 **Paul Dimmock** :  
I wanna see the look on Johnny's face when he sees you in the crowd

 **Greg Lestrade:**  
He's going to be so excited

 **Mike Stamford:**  
This is brilliant.

 **Mike Stamford:**  
Absolutely BRILLIANT!

Grin in full bloom now, Sherlock rereads through the messages again, lurching a bit to the side as the train whips around a curve before righting itself, and then he scans through the chat once more, indulging himself just a bit in the fact that he'd created this masterful plan and it's being carried out rather spectacularly and Mike is definitely right; this is brilliant. Absolutely _brilliant_.

Forcing himself to tuck his phone away and not pander to his ego too much, Sherlock turns his gaze outward at the damp greenery swirling by in a blur, his chest warming with a giddiness he can't avoid giving in to, his fingers tapping helplessly against his knee as he wills the world outside his window to move along just a bit quicker, silently pleading with the conductor to push the speed just a little bit faster, checking his watch every minute to see how much time has passed and then checking again to make sure he's read it right. Logically, he knows the train currently barreling its way out of London is going the exact speed it should be going, that it will get him there as fast as it can, that this ride is exactly five hours no more and no less but logic is evading him right now considering what's waiting at the other end of these five hours is something Sherlock's been impatiently wanting for _three sodding days_.

He checks his watch again and huffs irritably as the big hand ticks slowly along the tiny tally marks before he tugs his shirt sleeve back down and glares grumpily out the window, long fingers finding their way back to his knee and resuming their aggravated tapping, counting out the long extended beats of time clicking by slower and slower and slower.

It's _maddening_.

It's been _three days_ , for godsake.

Three long miserable days without blue eyes glittering up at him and big megawatt smiles shining back at him and tan features crinkling happily toward him in that way that makes his heart do a double backflip. It's been three stupidly long days, a full 72 hours without calloused fingers soothing and damp lips kissing and a strong body pressing up against his own.

It's been three brutal days without John Watson and Sherlock Holmes is going absolutely _insane_.

Something about a rugby tournament and a five-day weekend away from London meant nothing to him last week when John had attempted to explain it to him in between a rather heated bout of snogging each other senseless and frankly Sherlock shouldn't have been expected to be coherent enough to understand the ramifications of such an event, particularly the one where John Watson's gorgeously skilled hands are not all over him every single night like he's become so accustomed to and therefore he cannot be held accountable for his actions. Clearly his partner did not fully understand what his away schedule might do to a young chemistry student who only recently had his sexual awakening at the hands of a dashing rugby player and five days away is simply _not on_ for the two of them to be apart in any capacity. Or four days. Or three days. Or one.

So. Sherlock has decided to take things into his own hands. Because frankly this is goddamn ridiculous. He should never ever be away from John Watson for this long. Not ever. It is absolutely unacceptable.

And since John Watson is loyal to a fault, he has no current plans to end this separation early, something about the 'team' and 'not letting anyone down' and some other nonsense that Sherlock just could not listen to considering all of these statements only lead to one fact that this time apart will not end any sooner and the full five days apart would be forced upon him without his consent like some exile he's been ordered into.

So he's putting a stop to this right now.

Or in five hours from now, anyway.

Because Sherlock is going to John. On this train going not-enough miles per hour, Sherlock is on his way to John's current location, prepped and coiffed and ready to see his man, an overnight bag currently stashed beneath his seat which he can't help subtly kicking at every few minutes to ensure it's still there.

And the best part is John has no bloody idea.

It's one of his cleverer plans he must admit, surprising his boyfriend in such a dramatic fashion after so much time apart but it's less about the dramatics and more about the fact that he simply cannot _take_ being this far away from John Watson for another minute. He can barely stand being on the other side of the room than his love let alone in separate parts of the country for Christ's sake and frankly he is a little put out that he was not considered at all when this decision was made for this damn tournament, no matter how much John swears it was out of his hands.

Therefore, Sherlock is rectifying the situation.

And continues to ignore the worry niggling at the base of his skull, the one that offers the possibility that maybe John won't be happy to see him at all. That maybe this is the worst idea he's ever had. That maybe John wanted to get away from him for a long weekend and didn't know how to tell him-

He shakes his head harshly, hoping to scatter the end of that sentence out and away of his brain, those types of thoughts attempting to plague him ever since this idea of his came to fruition mere hours ago. He again shoves it away, ignoring it altogether and focusing on the greenery passing him by in a long unfocused never-ending view, tapping his mobile to his bottom lip and purposefully shifting his thoughts away from fear and worry and nervousness and onto something much more pleasant and bright and beautiful; John Watson.

Grinning like the fool that he is like he always does every time the name lights up his phone or leaves his mouth or crosses his mind, the genius boy tips his head back and lets his mind wander like it's been doing for the last few days, familiar feelings and realizations swirling around his mind again and again. He glances one more time at the clock on his phone before tucking it back into his trouser pocket and decides now is probably a good a time as any to really examine what exactly it is that he's learned in the 72 hours since John left their dorm.

It doesn't hurt as much anymore, harnessing the awareness, not after days of similar notions chasing each other around his head until they finally catch up with one another and intertwine, making sense of the others and partnering together to form simple world-altering life-changing details like, for instance, the fact that in the entirety of the last 18 years of his life, Sherlock has been relatively alone. He's been friendless and dateless and completely on his own, hardly entertaining a fleeting thought about what it would be like to have a companion of any sort, barely sparing a second glance at any person in his general vicinity male or female.

And he's always thought it was just because he'd never had time to worry about such trivial matters, never thought through exactly how that may enrich his existence having someone to experience things with and share things with and simply _be_ with. He's never weighed the pros and cons, never considered how that could change things for him, significantly or otherwise, because he didn't believe it mattered. He'd just been alone. Alone is what he'd had. Alone protected him.

And up until several months ago, up until blue irises and blonde fringe and megawatt smiles, he never realized exactly what that meant. Up until John Watson had given him a minute of his time and attention, Sherlock Holmes hadn't comprehended the fact that being alone all these years has made him so bloody _lonely_.

He'd always known he'd been different, that much wasn't hard to figure out. The _outcast_ , the _freak_ , the _weird kid_ in the back of sciences that knew all the answers to every test question known to man. He was always fully aware he wasn't normal, that he didn't belong with the jocks or the artists or the nerds, that he belonged in a group all by himself, the Sherlock Holmes Social Group, always a party of one, always separated, always on his own.

He just hadn't realized how awful it had been until he wasn't on his own anymore.

And make no mistake, he and John are nothing alike. They don't eat the same things or drink the same tea, they don't enjoy the same hobbies, they don't participate in the same activities. They are apples and oranges. Two very different boys from two very different worlds. And still, they fit together like matching puzzle pieces. Sliding in beside each other like two halves of a whole, they _belong_ together. And nothing has magnified that fact alone for Sherlock Holmes more so than being apart from John Watson for three fucking days.

And in those three days, Sherlock has decided that being away from John is not only intolerable, it's unbelievably frustrating and entirely unacceptable. It _hurts_ to be apart from him. It makes Sherlock ache in places he didn't realize he had, forcing loneliness back into his world where it doesn't belong, twisting his stomach and his heart and his head all up in knots with the sheer knowledge that not only was Sherlock Holmes never meant to be alone; he is meant to be with John Watson very specifically.

It hadn't quite slammed into him but it was a close thing, working itself out of the depths of his subconscious for hours on end and forcing its way into the forefront of his mind, blinking and buzzing and snapping and demanding to be recognized and after that lovely little realization, Sherlock had boarded the train this morning without a second thought, sat himself down in a seat close to an exit and willed this beastly machine to get moving so Sherlock Holmes could get to his other half. His matching puzzle piece. His _John_.

Although that's not to say all these new understandings didn't knock him off center pretty seriously.

It feels less like a full-on injury now and more like a healing wound, no longer making him sick to his stomach in despair that not only has he not been living his life to the absolute fullest but that he didn't even realize it until the one person who'd forced this knowledge out of him was now gone for five horrendous days. That pill had been hard enough to swallow and Sherlock Holmes just knew he had to do _something_.

So he's doing something. Right now.

And five hours can't go by quick enough.

A vibration against his thigh shocks him out of his subconscious deep-dive and the genius boy opens his eyes, not remembering when he'd closed them in the first place, pulling his mobile free from his pocket and glancing down to find a text message alert glowing back at him. A soft smile sneaks up along his mouth and Sherlock slides open the screen, biting down on his bottom lip as he reads the text and who it's from.  
_  
On a scale of 1 to 10, how well do you think I'm handling being away from you?_

It's so silly and so John, Sherlock can't help a soft chuckle escaping his lips, forgetting entirely that he's in public and laughing at something no one else can see is not socially acceptable, but truthfully the genius boy simply cannot be arsed to care, familiar warm bubbles popping happily in his chest as he types his response.

_**Define the scale.** _

_1 being poor, 10 being excellent._  
**  
I'd say... 5.**

_Wrong. The answer is 1. I am handling it very very poorly._

He can't help the way his cheeks warm at the words, rather pleased that John is missing him just as much.

 _**Ah** _ _._

_5 was your guess? Really? Are you at a five?_

Feeling a little giddy and bold, Sherlock decides to be brutally honest.

_**I'm in negative numbers.** _

The reply is immediate.

_Christ, I miss you terribly._

_**I miss you too.** _

_Three days away from you is the fucking worst._

It's cheesy and wonderful and Sherlock can't help poking a little bit, knowing he's being mean with his little surprise and unable to care. He'll be with John so _soon_ , it's making him braver than usual. 

_**It'll be almost five by the time you get back.** _

_Four and a half. We're getting on the bus bright and early Sunday morning if I have anything to say about it._

_**I dearly hope you will have something to say about it.** _

_How have the experiments been going since I've been gone?_

_**What experiments?** _

_Are we still playing that game?_

_**Yes.** _

_Dammit, I still miss you even when you're doing things you're not supposed to be doing._

_**And I you.** _

_What things am I doing that I'm not supposed to be doing?_

_**Being away for too bloody long.** _

_Fair._

_What do you miss most?_

_**Your obscenely clean side of the room.** _

_Wait, seriously?_

_**Yes. Even though I find it extremely irritating, I miss you being here being unbearably clean.** _

_Oh my god, that is NOT what I was asking!_

_**What were you asking?** _

_Nice things, Sherlock. What nice things do you miss about me?_

The knowing smile is immediately full across his face, his partner so transparent and so precious Sherlock has the impulse to clutch his phone to his chest and squeal in delight.

He doesn't, but it's a close thing.

_**Are you fishing for compliments John Watson?** _

_Yes of course I am!_

_I want to hear my gorgeous boyfriend, who I miss like crazy, tell me what he likes about me. Is that so bad?_

The genius boy is swooning over his text messages like a besotted idiot, cradling his mobile in his hand like some fragile baby bird, his heart practically bursting with so much affection for this soft rugby player he's been chosen by wanting to hear what Sherlock likes about him.

_**No it's not bad. Not at all.** _

_So?_

_**So** _

_Tell me!_

Suddenly feeling flustered and nervous and a little put on the spot, Sherlock taps out a reply that seems a bit dull compared to his partner's charming request for a compliment but he can't find it in himself to come up with anything cleverer.

_**There are many things I miss.** _

_Name one._

One. Oh god, _one_ thing? One thing about John Watson? There is no _one_ thing about John Watson. There are many many _many_ things about John Watson.

_**I can't just name one.** _

_Why not?_

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Sherlock attempts to explain it the best he can.

_**Because each one thing is tied with another one thing.** _

_Is that so?_

_**It is.** _

_**I miss one thing about you because I miss another one thing about you because of another. You see?** _

_**They are all interwoven together.** _

_**None of them outweigh each other. I miss you completely.** _

_**Your smile, your laugh, your thoughtfulness, your touch. I miss all of it. I miss you as a whole, John. There is no one thing. There is just you and all the one things that make up you and I miss every single one of those one things all at once all the time.** _

_**I miss the entirety of you.** _

His phone lays silent for a long moment and he's beginning to wonder if he said something horrible, that maybe that last sentence doesn't actually make as much sense as he thought it did, that maybe that was a bit too much, when a notification finally comes in.

_I desperately need to kiss you, Sherlock Holmes._

_Right the fuck now._

The grin is back in full force, cheeks burning and face beaming down at the phone in his hand.

_**I would be amenable.** _

_Jesus. No one has ever said anything so romantic to me before._

_**That was romantic?** _

_God yes._

_I want to touch you so badly._

Warmth turns to heat immediately in his belly, goose pimples prickling the back of his neck as he shifts in his seat, replying with shaky fingers.

_**I want you to touch me.** _

_You're in for it when I get home._

_**Promise?** _

_Promise. Just a few more days baby and I'll be home with you again._

_**Still feels like forever.** _

_I know._

_**How is the tournament going?** _

_I don't want to talk about it._

_Badly._

_**That's unfortunate.** _

_Yeah._

_**Is there any way to turn it around?** _

_We're just tired and unfocused. It's the last big push before the holiday break, no one even wants to be here._

_**I understand.** _

_Besides, it's practically impossible to get your head in the game when a gorgeous bloke that looks like a damn model is keeping your bed warm and you're not there._

It takes a moment for that to sink in and when it does, Sherlock is tapping out his reply with a darkening blush and a gooey feeling in his sternum.

_**Are you talking about me?** _

The answering message only melts his inside more.

_You are adorable._

He's staring lovingly down at his phone as another text pings in and the softness in his chest begins to heat up.

_And sexy. Did I mention sexy?_

He can't think of anything witty to reply with so he just says what he's currently thinking. What he can't stop thinking.

_**I can't wait to see you.** _

_I know. We're heading out to the field now. Can I call you after?_

_**Please do. Good luck.** _

_Thank you, love._

It's enough to settle his racing heart and anxious thoughts and he presses his forehead against the glass feeling a renewed sense of excitement and thrill, watching fog cloud beneath his eyes as he exhales against it, heart calming from a racing to a steady pulsing in his chest, content to thrum in time with the pull of the train car, with the knowledge that his perfect boyfriend is waiting on the other end of this long ride.

He vaguely wonders of the rain will stop by the time he arrives before Sherlock's eyes are drooping shut, the rest of the journey lost to sleep.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The rain does not stop.

In fact, the rain has become much _more_ than rain.

High winds thrash along the small university stadium rattling the fans and players alike as raindrops pummels from above, littering the grassy field with pockets of deep muddy puddles and drenching the crowd of fans in icy water, hoods and umbrellas doing nothing to keep the cold from seeping into coats and jumpers. Teeth chattering together harshly, Sherlock digs his hands deep into his pockets and holds completely still, grey eyes slitted against the weather attacking his slight frame, doing his best to ignore the fact that his hoodie and jumper have been thoroughly soaked through, shivering as his t-shirt - the third and last layer he's wrapped in - begins to press into his bare skin wetly. His curls wilt around the crown of his head down into his eyes and plaster to his ears and he silently thanks his past self for packing a bit of hair product in his overnight bag, already planning a fruitless effort to tame and reshape his ringlets before he surprises his partner.

 _This is for John_ , he tells himself as his feet squelch within his shoes, his toes already frozen to the bone. _You can suffer a bit for John._  
  
Thunder cracks overhead like a whip, forcing a shudder through the genius boy's frame as he sways meekly in the wind like a fallen leaf, harshly scolding himself for the poor choice of clothing and lack of overhead cover, just as a roar ripples through the soaked crowd, the cheers and whoops and excitement dulled significantly as heavy waters beat against umbrella tops and metal bleacher seats, but still Sherlock's heart kicks up in his chest at the familiar excitement of a rugby match about to begin considering he knows exactly what that means, his frozen lip finding its way between his teeth as he waits with baited breath for his absolute favorite moment of every game he attends. It's a long second before he can make out each team running out of their respective locker rooms and out onto the pitch, splashes of white and black and red barely visible through sheets of rain, but the people in the stands cheer all the same, shouting for their players and clapping furiously against the storm going on around them.

Thank god Sherlock is fully used to all of this now, not only the loud incessant noise of the crowd but the chest-clenching, stomach-swooping, heart-racing reaction he has every time he lays eyes on that giant 3 laying flat against that fit back just below those acrylic letters creating one of Sherlock's most favorite words in the world.

WATSON

It's still so stunning and a little jarring the way his entire _body_ reacts to that jersey on his man still, all fitted and tapered perfectly to fit that compact frame exquisitely, it's a shameful indulgence Sherlock allows himself to take at every single match he goes to because, honestly, what else is the point of being here when John Watson looks so damn _fine_ in that uniform?

There is no other point. The point is to ogle that beautiful boy from head to toe for two glorious hours.

Although Sherlock has to admit that today is just a little different.

The back of John's head just _looks_ cold, his blonde hair taking on a chestnut color as it darkens with rain water, matting it along his skull as his jersey wilts against his back beneath the raging weather, but still the blond looks strong, shoulders kicked back and ready, fist clenching and unclenching at his sides, gaze alert and searching, clearly ready to fight even in the worst conditions.

Even as he stands frozen in his shoes, Sherlock's libido seems to have no qualms about the temperature, beating a steady pulse in his belly with a casual but firm request for his cock to join in on the fun, the sight of his love adorned in uniform preparing for battle something his lower half cannot ever seem to resist no matter the time nor place nor circumstance, his fingers twitching in his pockets with the need to touch and grab and _squeeze_.

And right on cue John turns, scanning the pitch as the captains line up and shake hands, blue eyes dark with focus and intensity, gauging his surroundings with the concentration of a player who knows the stakes and realizes exactly what kind of fight he's walking into. He watches each player on the opposing team with an assessing gaze, sizing each of them up carefully before turning back to his team, features serious, frame steady, looking sexy as all fucking hell and Sherlock only just has the wherewithal not to moan out loud.

It's been three sodding days.

Three _days_ for Christ's sake and Sherlock physically _aches_ , his stomach twisting and turning and knotting itself up into a big ball of pent-up sexual frustration and the genius boy is certain, he is absolutely _positive_ that he will die right here, he will drown in the puddled rain water at his feet if he doesn't get his hands on that gorgeous rugby player in that fucking uniform right this goddamn minute, his throat going painfully dry at the very idea of not clutching John to him, not peeling John out of that soaked jersey, not having his delicious _way_ with John Watson.

Especially since for the last three days, Sherlock has been doing research.

Lots and lots and _lots_ of research.

Helpful research.

 _Dirty_ research.

And while he refuses to out and out admit to himself just exactly what he's been up to for the last 72 hours, it's simply unfair to be armed with all of this knowledge and unable to do anything with it considering the person he'd like to do it with is currently out there on that filthy field and not in Sherlock's bed where he belongs.

He blames the shivers racing up his back on the frigid wind, quicksilver eyes tracking John's every move from the bench to the team huddle to the center of the field, locked on that number 3, filthy images dancing around his mind, taunting him with all the things he wants and all the things he could have and all the things he's not going to get for another few bloody hours and by the time the whistle blows Sherlock is practically panting, hardly even noticing the harsh rain dripping from his eyelashes as he licks his lips hungrily. He swallows hard and drops down in his seat, spine ramrod straight straining to not miss a single moment of his John in that godforsaken jersey looking like some sort of rugby god, and some sort of sex god while he's at it, fighting his way through the unbelievable weather like a warrior, fighting for his team, and, in the genius boy's fantasy anyway, fighting for his way to Sherlock. It's more than once that the genius boy must loosen his tightly gripped fingers from where they've gone numb twisting together in his jeans unforgivingly as he throbs helplessly in his pants, choosing to ignore the fact that he's brought this very specific kind of torture on himself. Honestly, what was he thinking coming to this game after three days away from his boyfriend? How exactly did he think this was going to go? Sitting up here, out of sight, out of _reach_ of that gorgeous bloke, what the hell did he think was going to happen?

Truthfully, he hadn't thought much about it, all rational considerations flying out the window at the realization that he could be with John in just a few short hours. He'd just boarded a bus he knew would take him to here and that was it.

 _Christ,_ is he regretting this decision now.

How long are goddamn rugby games again?

Squeezing his eyes shut for ten long seconds and thinking steadily about Mycroft, Sherlock blows out a breath and wills himself to relax, his libido thankfully falling silent at the repulsive thought of his older brother and settling beneath his skin unobtrusively, a low hum still simmering through his veins, a harmless reminder of what his inner-self is _begging_ for. He attempts quickly to control his untrained body, preparing himself for the delicious sight he'll be graced with before he opens his eyes again and focuses, trying desperately to watch anyone besides John Watson running around the pitch, feeling a bit less off-balance without the sole focus on his love.

Even by Sherlock's standards, considering he still doesn't know a thing about rugby, the game is absolutely _brutal_ from the start. Heavy rains teem against the backs of every player on the field and the bench, winds blowing viciously this way and that as they scramble over each other to gain the upper-hand. Puddles turn into small pools at their feet and even running seems like a struggle as boots get caught in ever-deepening muddy waters, dragging the usual finesse of the game down to simple schoolyard hustle, any skill hindered heavily by weather conditions, forcing every player down to the same level. Flashes of lightning brighten the darkened sky above them and only seem to bring heavier rainfall, the pitch resembling more of a swamp than a field, every bloke fighting mercilessly against the weather and each other, small battles turning into all-out war, hard work not paying off in the slightest against the angry storm, cheap shots becoming more and more frequent as frustrations mount.

As wonderful as John Watson's tight arse is, Sherlock must admit the tension rising between the teams is rather fascinating to watch, the fury on either side evident with sharp elbows and meticulously placed cleats and rougher than necessary tackles. It's almost impossible to find the ball from where he sits in the stands so Sherlock instead tracks the movements of the players he knows, watching Mike take a tumble into the mud and Paul offer a hand to help him up only to be shoved down with him by an opposing player. The bloke jogs past them sprawled on the ground and smirks, opening his mouth say something Sherlock can't hear although it clearly wasn't something good considering Mike is attempting to scramble to his feet, face tomato-red and furious, shouting something unintelligible as he goes. Greg only just steps in before Mike gains his footing, pressing a hand to his chest and shaking his head just as the boy on the other team gives an ugly bark of a laugh. Even from here it looks unpleasant and malicious, baring his teeth like a rabid dog and Sherlock's stomach turns to ice at the sight of his Pong partner – his _friend_ – being condescended to by some twat. He swivels his head around to find his own player on the field currently attempting to round up the team, ice thawing a bit in his stomach as he watches John swatting arses and backs, striving to bring the focus back on the game and away from the filthy hits and rude words, slapping a hand to Mike's shoulder in solidarity and support and even from here Sherlock can see the grateful smile on Mike's face.

The heat is back in full force rushing out to his every limb as Sherlock takes in his man commanding the field and his team, rallying everyone around him, pulling attention like some beacon of strength and power, his short stature doing nothing to hinder his authority, every boy on the team hanging on his every word as he gestures and hollers and directs their next play. Sherlock can't catch any single word, but he can see the team standing at attention, can see the hold John's got on all these boys; they respect the hell out of him, even their own captain listening intently, before they break with a unanimous clap, pumping each other up with whoops and hollers, jogging back out onto the mess of a field and digging in for another go.

 _Oh John Watson,_ Sherlock's internal voice growls in his ear _. The things I plan to do to you this evening._

It doesn't take long for another dirty hit to befall another player, this time Greg is the one landing chest-first into the mud with an opposing player falling gracelessly on top of him, hands twisted in his jersey, both tossing in the mud struggling to gain the upper-hand and apparently, an uppercut as Greg swings a raging fist through the rain and onto the side of the boy's jaw. Others dogpile into the fight, defending their teammates as best they can before the referee is breaking them up, pulling them apart as Greg shouts and spits violently toward the other team, flinging his middle finger in the air as the opposing bloke shouts obviously vile things back.

And yet again, like a guiding force, there is John Watson, pushing Greg backward and into their huddle, pulling the team back into focus, encouraging them to ignore the low blows and the illegal hits and play the game, _their_ game, play smart and hard, wrangling the team like the captain he should be. He claps his hands and gestures wildly through the raindrops, reigning the boys back in, leading like the leader he is, the frigid cold pinkening his round cheeks and doing nothing to hinder his enthusiasm, finger pointing at each one of his teammates and conjuring a rally cry from the tiny mob surrounding him.

Chewing on the inside of his cheek steadily in an attempt to distract himself from the _want_ settling low in his hips, Sherlock hopes desperately that no one in the stands is looking his way considering he's certain he's staring at his commanding boyfriend with giant cartoon heart eyes and it's just too damn hard to try and fight considering they are this close, this fucking _close_ to being together after so many days apart.

And being this close is a special kind of torture Sherlock is finding out. God, that boy out on that field barking orders and shouting plays and directing like a captain should, Sherlock _belongs_ to that boy. He is John Watson's through and through.

The whistle blows again and the war rages one, the game somehow morphing into three different opponents, one rugby team in all black, another in green and the storm wearing all grey, the result a constant angry clash of dark colors all swarming together wetly, the rain coming out the victor as the boys fight through puddles and mounds of mud and each other. It's painful to watch these blokes Sherlock has become relatively attached to get beaten down play after play, hits coming harder and nastier as icy rain hails down from above, freezing their jerseys to their backs and turning their skin red and raw and frozen.

It goes on like that for what feels like forever, the game so painfully slow even Sherlock is beginning to get restless, even with a stunning view of his man in uniform, the speed of play practically in slow motion, the score still tied at zero. Tackle after tackle, hit after hit, the team does their very best in the conditions they're faced with, picking each other up when they're knocked down, cheering each other on when they finally make something happen. It's a comradery Sherlock has become accustomed to over the last few months and one he appreciates now as he stands helplessly on the sidelines attempting fruitlessly to keep warm, his whole frozen body hurting twice as much for his friends out on the field.

It's just as well that he chooses that moment to glance at the clock, calculating how much more of this madness they'll have to endure when he catches just a glimpse of something flying out of the corner of his eye.

He whips his head back around, time forgotten as he watches in numb shock at the sight before him, turning just in the nick of time to watch not something but some _one_ soar through the air spinning once, twice and is on the way to a third rotation when a thud and an _oomph_ can be heard even as thunder grumbles above as the body lands in a heap in the mud.

And it's only then that Sherlock realizes what it is.

 _Who_ it is.

Not _just_ a body.

Not _any_ body.

 _John's_ body.

The cold is nothing compared to the way Sherlock's blood freezes in his veins at the sight of his strong John lying motionless on the filthy field, his back to the crowd, the shoulder he's lying on tucking unnaturally beneath his weight, the rest of him unmoving and still as stone.

And suddenly, Sherlock can't fucking _breathe_.

His legs and mouth and brain seem to be at a dead stop as he stands stock still in his spot, the eerily quiet stands alerting him to the fact that he isn't actually overreacting at all, that this is actually serious and _terrifying_ , that John may actually be bloody _unconscious_ out on the pitch in the pouring rain. He can't tell himself to move, to do anything except watch in abject horror as medics run out onto the field toting big red duffels and shooing the rest of the players out of their way. He only just registers Mike and Paul being physically shoved out of the way as they attempt to claw their way back to their teammate's side where Greg is kneeling down clutching at John's hand. The medics seem to accept his presence and work around him and the scene plays on before the genius boy like some sort of silent film he's watching live, his ears ringing as everything falls away around him, his entire world narrowing down to that frozen boy in the mud.

He can't feel anything. Not the water dripping down his cheeks, not the raging winds whipping his curls into a mess, not his heart beating furiously against his chest. The world around him has gone quiet as Sherlock's world lies unmoving in a mess of muck and grime, men in red jackets swarming in slow motion around the body on the grass landing on their knees and shuffling in their duffels as Sherlock's ears throb a steady soundless thud against his temples.

This can't-

It's not-

There isn't-

This isn't _happening_.

John is fine.

John is fine.

John is goddamn _fine_.

Sherlock's vision blurs around the edges as he stares unseeingly out before him, repeating his mantras over and over in his head, ignoring the cracks in every sentence, the shutter and fall of every word, he steadfastly pretends not to hear the uncertainty in his own convictions as John still just fucking _lays_ there, not moving or being moved, not doing _anything_.

This isn't happening.

This isn't real.

John is fine.

John is fine.

He watches with a detached focus as Greg leans in further, down to the ground and away from the eyes of the crowd and Sherlock can't look away, can hardly see what's happening anymore as red jackets and bags and hats and people fill his vision, swirling together to form a sea of red around the body on the field, making him a little woozy and out of sorts, unable to look away from the swarm and somehow still unable to track a thing that's going on.

Nothing to worry about then. The ocean of red will take care of the bloke on the pitch and everything will be fine. Nothing to worry about.

Nothing to worry about.

Nothing to worry about.

Everyone is fine.

Every _thing_ is fine.

It's fine.

It's all fine.

Everything is bloody fine-

" _SHERLOCK_!"

It's like being hit by a bus.

The world comes screeching back in full force, the pounding of the rain against the stands, the whistle of the wind swirling harshly in the air, the crowd clapping uselessly to something going on that Sherlock can't see as he blinks his aching eyelids against the rain and tears stream down, realigning his blurry gaze as a hand on his shoulder shakes him, the scene around him becoming clear again.

"Sherlock, oi, you with me?"

Sucking in a gust of air, the genius boy realizes he isn't breathing properly, his breath coming in short gasps like he's coming down from hyperventilating, unable to catch anything deep enough in his lungs to soothe his panic and he turns to clutch at the arm attached to the hand on his shoulder, glancing up just in time to find Mike Stamford nodding steadily at him and patting his back.

"There you go, there's a good lad," Mike encourages with a pained smile, the steady tap of his fingers to Sherlock's shoulder blade slowly grounding him. "Deep breaths in and out, there we are, in and out, breathe with me."

Sherlock obeys, eyes wide and trained on his friend, following Mike's chest rising and falling, barely managing not to double over and heave, his heart somehow lodged in his throat racing at an unnatural speed as the reality of what is going on finally begins to seep in.

The knowledge does nothing to soothe his scattered mind, still unable to catch his breath.

"He's fine," Mike says immediately, reading the panic all over Sherlock's face and holding steadily to his shoulder. "He's okay. Really, he is. Dislocated his shoulder and got knocked around pretty good but he's okay. He's out of the tournament of course but he'll be right as rain." The uncomfortable smile is now genuine as Mike practically preens. "Pun intended."

It takes a moment to form words out of his dry throat.

"But-… he-…" Sherlock rasps around his shaky breathing, pausing to inhale before attempting to continue. "He wasn't… moving…"

"Have you ever dislocated a joint?" Mike grins knowingly, making Sherlock's heart slow a bit. If Mike is smiling, that's got to be a good sign, right? He wouldn't smile like some lunatic if this was some horrible fatal injury. "It hurts like a motherfucker. You don't have any interest in moving, trust me on that."

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Sherlock stares uncomprehendingly at Mike, none of the words making sense in his head, his brain going entirely offline with the exception of _John John where's John how is John oh god John._

"He is _fine_ ," Mike reiterates, ducking down to look Sherlock right in the eye and offer a firm nod. "I promise you. Come on, would your Pong partner lie to you?"

He can't find the right answer so instead Sherlock inhales deeply once more in an attempt to steady his galloping heart and make sense of the information he's been given, still nothing feeling quite real.

"The answer to that was no, by the way," Mike teases with a squeeze to his shoulder. He leans down toward the bench and hands Sherlock a green bottle. "Here. Drink some water. It'll help."

Grateful to have something to do besides breathe deep, Sherlock puts the bottle to his lips and gulps like a drowning man, cold water soothing his grainy throat and Mike chuckles beside him without saying a word, letting Sherlock suck down all the water he can manage.

"Better?" Mike asks once the bottle's been emptied and returned to his grasp.

Sherlock nods, taking one more deep breath, grateful to find his thoughts aligning themselves as he surveys the emptying field. "What's going on now?" he manages after a long moment, thoughts clearing enough to realize the scene before him and Mike being up here can't be right.

"They called the game for the evening," Mike smiles though his brows are furrowed with concern. "Bad weather conditions finally put a stop to this madness. You really were zoned out, weren't you?"

"Sorry," Sherlock mutters, looking around for any sign of John but the majority of players are off the field and heading to the locker rooms, John Watson nowhere to be found.

"Don't be sorry," Mike replies jovially with a smack to Sherlock's back. "If I saw my partner get flipped like that, I'd be freaked too. We just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"We?" Sherlock frowns before he sees two sets of eyes peering over Mike's shoulder, Greg and Paul's faces blinking back at him with worry as they make their way over from the gate to the field. He can't help feel a stab of guilt and a pang of embarrassment, everyone running to his side like he's some helpless maiden about to faint, refusing to acknowledge the fact that it's closer to spot on than he'd like to admit. "Oh for godsake," he says anyway. "I'm _fine_."

It doesn't sound the least bit true and by the way the three boys are staring back at him unmoved at all by his attempt at a sharp response his guess is it didn't convince them either, each taking a step closer.

"That was scary, Sherlock," Greg sympathizes with a sad shrug. "It's okay to be upset. If I saw Mycroft get hit like that I'd be a mess."

"Seriously, mate," Paul nods in agreement. "We just knew you were up here worrying and we wanted you to know it's gonna be fine. John will be fine. Why don't you go back to the hotel and surprise him? He should be back within a half an hour, they're just bandaging him up."

Ice thickens in Sherlock's stomach all over again, the memory of what now seems like a very stupid plan pinging in his thoughts like an alarm bell. "I... maybe I should just go back to London," he mutters, rubbing a hand to the back of his neck feeling unbelievably awkward. "…He probably just wants to rest."

"Absolutely not," Greg snaps. "The only thing he's going to want is to be with you. Otherwise he's going to be in an epic sulk for being out of the tournament and I'd prefer not to deal with that John Watson. So you're staying." He hands a key card to Sherlock and grins knowingly. "He has no idea you're here, he thinks he's still bunking with me. Go surprise him."

Processing time has slowed significantly in his hard drive brain and Sherlock is blinking uncomprehendingly, emotions still twisted up in _where is John_ and _how is_ _John_ and _what is happening with John_? His vision is still swimming, everything blurring a bit in front of him, his chest somehow simultaneously tightening and loosening all at once, anxiety still twisting his insides up into knots.

"Go on," Greg is saying again, pressing the key card further into Sherlock's hand and patting his arm. "He's gonna want to see you."

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Walking down an empty hotel hallway is always a little ominous and tonight feels no different as Sherlock grips his somewhat presumptuous overnight bag in his hand a bit tighter, the little contents of a jumper, a pair of jeans and a toothbrush shifting slightly as he picks up the pace, the keycard Greg had slipped him right after the game snug in his grip. He's not going to use it of course, the thought of barging in to John's room to 'surprise' him feeling a bit showy and obnoxious, especially after the ordeal his boyfriend has already been through this evening, but it is nice to have a key just in case.

He's been wandering around the shops near the hotel for the last half hour, not wanting to be in John's room before John himself, and, frankly, needing a moment to get his head on straight. He hasn't had a fright like that in some time and the feeling has left him a bit shaken, his fingers still tingling with the lingering effects of a panic attack. It had done him some good to be alone for a bit and process his thoughts, get himself in order and be ready for whatever he's about to find at the end of this hallway.

But even now something is settling heavily in his stomach and Sherlock can't seem to control it; he's nervous. It's silly, he knows, obviously John will be kind about him arriving unannounced and never ever make him feel badly, but that's not the same as John actually being happy to see him. It's not the same as knowing he'll be welcomed with a true grin and a kiss and maybe a little loving. It would feel hollow and a little hurtful, John offering an obligatory smile that wouldn't reach his eyes and calmly put up with entertaining Sherlock for the night while he silently wished for silence and an empty room to tend to his wounds in peace.

And on any other day, Sherlock would be able to tamp down on his concerns. He wouldn't even be thinking about the fact that this may have been a very bad idea. But after watching John get driven into the dirt, grinding his shoulder down under the weight of a fully-grown boy, his body still until Sherlock couldn't see him anymore... John could very well just want to be alone tonight. Rest his shoulder and his head and regroup tomorrow.

And here Sherlock is, with a sodding overnight bag. Christ, this could all go pear-shaped very quickly.

The genius swallows down a wave of worry and barrels on, wishing to get this over with, to see how John will react to him, deciding if it's bad, he can always call a cab back to the train station. He'll do whatever John wishes him to. He'll do right by his partner.

The door with the matching number to his keycard looms ahead and Sherlock takes a deep breath, resolve settling firmly as he approaches, agreeing internally with himself to turn and head straight back to the train station if anything seems off at all, to not ask any questions at all, to do whatever is written in his boyfriend's features.

Stepping up to and knocking on the white wood, Sherlock raps softly on the door just as his mobile vibrates in his pocket. He digs the device out and glances down to the screen as he waits in silence, thumbing it open to reveal a text message notification staring back at him from his partner. He blinks down at it for a long moment, worry racing up his spine as he taps on the message, feeling a little silly standing outside the door while John has no idea, instead sending him text messages to communicate while he's only meters away.

_Hey, you awake?_

Sherlock only just has time to register that John really has absolutely no idea he's here just as a loud click startles him out of his thoughts, the handle in front of him falling down sharply and suddenly John is before him, adorned in only black sweats and an ice pack sitting firmly against his shoulder, wrapped precariously with saran wrap around his chest and disappearing under his arm. He looks fragile even with his strong torso in full view, the packed ice looking bulky and uncomfortable, water dripping down his front as the pack begins to melt, sagging against his skin like a wilting flower. His eyes are round and his mouth is parted as if he were about to say something and froze on the word, but still Sherlock can see the lines just starting to form, the fear and exhaustion written all over his boyfriend's face, the stresses of the evening catching up to him in real time.

Sherlock wants to hold him so much. He wants to wrap his arms around his lover and cuddle him and tend to his injury and kiss his hair and tell him everything is going to be okay. He's fully aware an injury like that can put an athlete out for weeks on end, maybe even a full season and he knows John Watson. He knows John Watson would never be able to put up with that, the ever-active boy unable to sit idle, the sidelines not a good place for him to stay. It hurts Sherlock to even think of his John being down for the count like that, unable to support his team, unable to help anyone, unable to do anything. He aches to touch John, to protect him, to take care of him, the delicate boy before him looking like he could crumble to the floor at any moment.

Instead, all Sherlock can do is flap his lips helplessly several times before raising the shaky hand clutching his mobile and waving it gently with a weak smile, hoping the joke eases the heavy tension between them, John's wordless state making Sherlock's stomach churn. "Er-" he mutters. "I'm awake."

The sentence seems to fall heavily in the silence for split second, just long enough for Sherlock to feel terribly foolish before John is moving, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's as he reaches through the doorframe, wraps a hand into Sherlock's sweatshirt and pulls.

The genius boy stumbles forward and is about to protest when he collides with John's compact body, the damp streaks on his chest seeping into the fabric of Sherlock's already soaked shirt quickly but honestly, it doesn't matter because John's thick arms are wrapping around Sherlock's waist and John's blond head is tucked beneath Sherlock's chin and it's all Sherlock could ask for in this moment. Dropping his duffle to the floor without another thought, he winds his arms around his boyfriend's shoulders, careful of the ice pack, and cradles him against his chest, pressing his lips to the top of John's head and holding him as close as he can without causing further injury, relief flooding his insides as his entire world curls into him.

They are together. _Finally_ , they are together.

And John is safe.

John is _okay_.

 _Everything_ is going to be okay.

Anxious nerves creep along the edges of his subconscious but he's able to keep them at bay as he holds his love against his heart and breathes him in, something comforting and soft settling in his stomach at the sweetness of this moment finally coming to fruition after days and days apart. He feels full to bursting with so much love for the boy securely in his arms.

The boy who's breathing goes a bit ragged and he clings a bit harder to Sherlock still standing in the doorway, fingers digging into Sherlock's back but the curly-haired boy pretends not to notice, simply holding John steady and comforting him as best he can, grateful to be the one to do this for John Watson. "I know," he murmurs into blonde hair, because he does know, he knows _exactly_ how John must be feeling, getting physically and mentally knocked off his game, hurting from the inside out, wondering what exactly comes next after something like this and Sherlock unfortunately can't heal his shoulder, but what he can do is be here, holding John like his life depends on it, gentling a hand along John's spine soothing the boy trembling in his arms. "I know, it's alright."

It's another minute before John composes himself, sniffing harshly and wiping the backs of his fingers beneath his eyes face still buried in Sherlock's chest before he finally pulls back enough to look up, red-rimmed eyes blinking sheepishly, offering a shaky smile.

"Sorry," he mutters, though he doesn't remove his hands from Sherlock's hips, fingers clenching and unclenching where they sit.

"Don't be," Sherlock whispers back, wrapping a hand around the base of John's neck loosely but steadily, careful not to bump into his skull in case that hit caused any sort of head trauma. "It's alright."

Watery eyes blink up at him and pink lips turn up in a real grin as John really takes him in for the first time. "I'm really _really_ glad to see you," he says genuinely, searching Sherlock's face like he hasn't seen it in too long which the genius boy can most definitely relate to considering he's doing the same thing, watching deep ocean irises dart back and forth, up and down, sparkling in that stunning way they always do. He loves John's blue eyes and he hadn't realized he'd missed them so much until this very moment, so he takes his fill, indulging himself in the gorgeous eyes of his lover.

"I'm glad to see you too," he agrees quietly. "Three days is three days too many."

"Agreed," John chuckles, plucking at a button on Sherlock's hoodie as his gaze travels down the rest of the genius boy's slender frame, taking in the damp and drooping clothing and furrowing his brow just the slightest before glaring up at his partner. "I see we didn't wear a coat again," he admonishes, pointing at Sherlock's chest. "Honestly, what is it with you and no coats?"

Sherlock isn't fooled by the change of subject, or at least he's simply choosing to ignore it as he tucks fingers beneath John's chin and tilts his face further upward. "What did the trainer say?" he asks, eyes locked on his love, hoping his gaze is as tender as he feels, wanting nothing more than to make John feel the warmth currently spreading out inside him.

The blond boy's smile doesn't waiver, actually growing a bit wider at the question and Sherlock's heart does a slow roll in his chest, another wave of relief washing over him.

"Actually," John says happily, "he said it's in pretty good shape. It was only a partial dislocation and they popped it back in properly. It'll bruise a bit and will be sore but overall I should be good to go in a few weeks." He shrugs his good shoulder. "It could have been a lot worse. But it still sucks to sit on the sidelines you know? The team needs me."

"They do," Sherlock agrees and pulls John back into a tight hug, more for himself than anything with the knowledge that this injury isn't going to end anything for his perfect John. "And they'll be able to wait until you can return fully healed."

John sighs against his chest. "Thank you," he mutters, his voice muffled into Sherlock's wet shirt. "I really am just so glad to see you. I didn't want to sit in here helplessly all night alone. Plus I fucking _missed_ you. I know it hasn't been that many days or anything but-"

"No need to justify it," Sherlock cuts him off quickly. "I was in the same boat."

John Watson's grin could light up a nation. "Good," he beams before glancing at the duffle bag on the floor, smile turning sly and teasing. "You had this planned?"

"Of course," Sherlock frowns, his cheeks warming a little feeling caught out. "It's a five-hour train ride to get here, John. Did you really think I'd heard you were injured and got here in such little time?"

John chuckles and shakes his head, lacing his fingers into Sherlock's. "Actually, yeah kind of."

The genius boy grins. "Trust me, I would have done my best. Watching you get hit was... unpleasant. But I'm glad I didn't have to wait too long to see you."

The megawatt smile of John Watson returns in full force, beaming up at Sherlock with all its brilliance and Sherlock's heart is an absolute wreck in his chest. "Me too," he whispers, leaning forward to drop a gentle kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I hated being away from you, you have no idea."

"I think I have some idea," Sherlock murmurs and they stand grinning at each other stupidly until a room door down the hall opens and startles them out of it.

"Come in," John says hurriedly like he's only just realizing he hadn't invited Sherlock into his room, which Sherlock's guess is he hadn't. He follows in far enough for the door to close behind him and then John is in his arms again, cuddling as close as possible and Sherlock takes him back in with open arms, feeling equally clingy and a little needy and very grateful that the sentiment is returned so he feels no shame in it.

"You are filthy," Sherlock mutters into John's still damp blond fringe, sweat and dirt suddenly filling his nose with an odd, though not unpleasant smell now that they're enclosed in a small room. "Have you bathed?"

"Not yet," John grumbles, burrowing further into Sherlock's chest like he has no intention of doing anything else, especially not bathing. "Kind of difficult with a broken wing and all."

"You're not broken," Sherlock reprimands gently before taking a deep breath and, with effort, shifting away enough out of John's reach to instead grasp his hand and tow him toward the loo, protective instincts taking over just a bit, charged again with a need to tend to John's every whim this evening, the knowledge that he's safe and sound doing nothing to soothe the urge to take care of him tonight. "You're perfect. But you smell terrible."

"Perfect, huh?" Even with his back turned Sherlock can hear the pleased little grin in John's voice but what he isn't ready for is the pull to his hand and the swift rotation of his body as his boyfriend spins him backward and into his strong arms.

Which of course is a miscalculation on the rugby player's part as Sherlock reaches out to steady himself and bumps John's injured shoulder, not harshly but enough for the blond to jerk it back and out of reach, stumbling a little before righting himself. John sucks in a sharp breath and winces at the pain, looking like he's about to cry out in agony though he manages to clamp down on it at the last second and attempting to smooth his features into less pain-stricken.

He's not fooling the genius for a moment, guilt swooping through Sherlock's stomach heavily at the sight of his love hurting so badly, but the look John's face tells Sherlock not to mention it or coddle it or do anything besides move right past it, John's jutted chin daring him to say anything, anything at all.

Ah.

So this is how it's going to go.

In all honesty, Sherlock had sort of assumed this is exactly how his boyfriend would handle being injured: ignore it, deny it, claim all is well until his dying breath the stubborn arse that he is, and Sherlock bloody well knew it didn't he, why he thought for even a moment John would allow himself to be managed and cared for and babied a little now completely beyond him as they stand staring at each other having a silent face-off, glaring the other down, waiting to make the first move.

Fine.

If this is how John wants to do things, then two can play that game.

John isn't the only stubborn arse in this room.

Settling back and a little away from his partner, Sherlock cocks his brow in a challenge. "I imagine that didn't feel great," he remarks snidely, eyeing his partner critically to make sure the hit didn't actually make things worse, masking his true intentions with a piercing gaze right back at John. "Maybe you can behave now and come have a shower? Avoid any more pesky little bumps?"

"I'm fine," John argues immediately, though he doesn't look like he's much interested in putting up a fight against bathing, a fine tremor making its way through his frame as he stands there with melting ice dripping down his front, but still he doesn't move to obey right away, standing still and steady, testing the waters on what he's actually going to get away with here.

"Oh my god," Sherlock rolls his eyes, ignoring the way John cocks his hip to the side in an obvious dare, and directs them to the loo with an irritated huff.

After turning the taps on in the shower, Sherlock prods John gently down on the closed toilet seat, ignoring the protests of his boyfriend claiming he can do things himself, and kneels in front of him, setting to work on slowly unwrapping the ice pack from the rugby player's shoulder with methodical, efficient movements, careful to preserve the wrap for later when John will need to ice again. It takes far longer than he'd thought it would and by the time he's peeling the pack off of John's skin the rugby player has gone all soft around the eyes, grinning adoringly down at Sherlock between his knees, the need to fight every effort of help Sherlock offers completely dissipating, blue irises now only holding warmth and fondness and the genius boy is practically glowing in response, blushing under the attention.

"I'm so glad you're here," John murmurs just loud enough over the spray of water hitting the porcelain tub, tucking a stray curl behind Sherlock's ear in that tender way he does. "I mean no offense to Greg but I'm certain he wouldn't be giving his injured teammate this much attention tonight."

"Greg sounds useless," Sherlock grumbles just as his heart grows in size at John's words, tossing a grin up at John as he wraps the ice carefully and puts it in the sink.

Which is of course when John decides it's a good idea to lift his injured arm up and rotate his shoulder like an imbecile. "Hey!" Sherlock cries in a panic, eyes wide and worried. "Stop that! You need to be resting it!"

"It's fine," John shakes his head even as he winces, dropping his hand back down to his lap and standing. "It's not that bad."

"Yes, it is," Sherlock snaps, eyeing and then refusing to look at the ugly bruise forming in a perfect half circle around the top of John's shoulder. "You need to be careful. Here." He steps forward and dips his thumbs into the front of John's rugby shorts, peeling the waistband back and making quick work of tugging the drawstring, deciding he needs to get John showered and in bed as quickly as possible before the rugby player does something else colossally stupid, like try to throw a ball with the arm that should be immobile and resting.

And it's not until soft blonde hair tickles his knuckles that Sherlock realizes his great miscalculation here, the tips of his fingers grazing snuggly fitting boxer briefs beneath said shorts, and his one-track mind suddenly buzzes sharply and drops offline entirely, the caretaker in him busying itself doing something else entirely forgetting all about clinically undressing this boy and putting him in the shower, instead deciding this isn't the professional and effective actions of a caretaker but something else entirely.

He's about to strip John Watson.

Completely bare and vulnerable and out for Sherlock's eyes to peruse completely for the very first time, Sherlock is about to remove every single one of John's pieces of clothing, naked as the day he was born, nude in front of his partner for the very first time and this.

Oh god, this isn't right.

He's going about this all wrong.

It shouldn't be like this.

Not the first time.

His fingers begin to shake where they're still holding onto the drawstring, a ball of messy anxious nerves bursting free in his chest and distracting him into his own head, his worried thoughts grabbing his focus and drawing him in. His breathing goes a bit ragged as he attempts to muddle through his panic, unable to get out of his own way and back to the task at hand but Christ Almighty.

He isn't supposed to be stripping John in this context. Things aren't supposed to happen like this.

It's all bloody _wrong_ -

"Hey love."

Tender honey-covered words spill free from pink lips as a smaller but firmer hand covers Sherlock's where it still hovers low on John's person and the genius boy glances up to find blue eyes staring softly at him, calm and cool and collected, gentle and loving like always. "You don't have to do that if you're not comfortable," John whispers, a teasing grin sliding easily onto his features, easing the tightening knot in Sherlock's chest. "I can undress perfectly fine on my own."

And just like that, the anxiety ebbs away, John's encouraging smile something pure and good to hold on to, grounding him back to reality and Sherlock huffs a soft laugh, still unable to meet John's eyes directly. "Well I don't know about that," he breathes. "How good are you at doing things with one hand?"

John's fingers squeeze around his hand, sliding up his wrist and back down to find the fine bones in his fingers. "Pretty fucking good, actually."

It comes out as a growl and Sherlock just barely manages to suppress a groan, heat pooling at the back of his neck with the innuendo he himself had made without even trying and John's response rocketing his libido into action without missing a beat, the situation changing yet again and Sherlock is drowning, oh Christ he is _drowning_ , the memories of the last three days, of his _research_ , of his thoughts, his _plans_ only hours ago as he watched that strong boy out on the rugby field, good _god_. He drops his forehead to John's good shoulder, fingers still clinging to John's and takes a much needed breath, his lower half pulsing with the reminder that he hasn't been touched in three days and it is most _definitely_ going to kill him seeing John Watson completely naked and completely gorgeous and he can't properly function with the knowledge of it, he won't survive it, he _can't_ -

And then John Watson has the audacity to wrap an arm around his shoulder and press his lips to Sherlock's ear like the genius boy's world isn't currently tilting, stopping and then rotating in a different direction.

"Would you like to shower with me, love?"

John, perfect wonderful John just _knows_ , doesn't he? He knows _exactly_ what Sherlock needs, he knows he needs to be asked, knows he'd prefer a damn written invitation to be sure he's not crossing any lines or boundaries he's not supposed to, but John is asking and Sherlock is sure, immediately and without hesitation, courage storming through him, beating off all anxieties and worries and unknowns, because this is John and John will always take care of Sherlock, even when he needs caring for himself.

John knows and Sherlock is sure.

And without another thought, he makes his move.

Sherlock tugs the elastic down to John's knees in one swift motion, before promptly turning away, busying himself with checking the heat of the shower spray, dipping his hand behind the curtain to feel the warm spray along his fingers. He can feel John shuffling behind him and before any concerns can be raised, Sherlock is shedding his wet clothing as quickly as possible before offering a grin over his shoulder, not allowing himself to take in the naked boy behind him fully before turning back. "You coming?" he asks brazenly even as his cheeks turn dark red at the sight of his boyfriend's mouth open and gaping at him, before he hops in over the lip of the tub, giddy with the boldness John's support gives him.

"Little shit," is John's reply and Sherlock has to laugh as he hears John follow suite, the unease from only moments ago washing away down the tub drain, leaving nothing but contented, lovely happiness between them and again Sherlock is overcome with the need to protect this perfect boy, care for him and make everything better.

The water is warm and nice and calming and Sherlock arranges them both under the spray, helping John tip his head back under the water to wet his hair, naked and beautiful for Sherlock to gaze at and love every inch of, water trailing down every line and dip of firm muscle, water gathering in the blonde hairs at John's groin and dripping sensually down his hardening cock, the image almost pornographic and Sherlock has to look away.

This isn't about that right now.

This is about something else entirely.

"Not broken," the blond boy murmurs even as he complies, tipping his head back into Sherlock's hands.

"Don't care," Sherlock grins. "Hand me the shampoo."

John shoots him a disgruntled glare before complying and Sherlock pours a small amount of the soap into his hand and sets about washing his boyfriend's filthy hair, smiling in triumph as John's eyes close and his face goes slack, allowing Sherlock to caress his skull and doing absolutely nothing to stop it, his head lulling in Sherlock's fingers as he works over and back down John's neck, massaging as best he can.

It's only then that it hits him.

Hard.

As he watches John relax into his touch, no longer teasing or grinning or challenging, simply being here, here and alive and completely fine, it's only then that Sherlock realizes his heart is an absolute _wreck_ , torn to complete shreds at the sight of John Watson, _his_ John Watson sprawled on the grass unnaturally, his strong, capable John thrown to the grown like some goddamn ragdoll, hardly daring to breathe let alone move a muscle, the image of him hurt and helpless burned into Sherlock's memory for all time, and the genius boy is convinced the ache in his stomach will never go away, not ever at the thought of his solid, compact partner lying in a heap on the rugby pitch.

Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes but he blinks them back, instead coaxing soapy water all along John's blonde hair, running soothing circles with the tips of his fingers all along each follicle and tenderly rubbing the base of John's neck with careful movements. He doesn't trust that John doesn't have a head injury. He saw that fall. It was hard and it was ugly and if John didn't hit his head on the cold, wet ground then it would be a fucking miracle but still Sherlock prods gently and discreetly along John's skull, biting down on his lip to keep the throb of painful worry at bay, doing his best to take care of his love and ignore his own emotion threatening to swallow him whole.

It's been days. That's it. Just days. Not weeks, not months, not years. They've been apart for literal _days_. And before Sherlock even had the chance to catch his eye, to smile at him and get a grin in return, to touch him, to be touched by him, John had been tackled so hard that if he'd landed just a little different, fallen just a little further, twisted just a little harsher-

He can't even finish the thought.

It _hurts_ to even try.

So instead Sherlock swallows hard, trying desperately to convince himself that it's just heightened emotions, it's just being apart and it's just the bearing of the storm and it's just a stressful game and it's just that –

It's just that Sherlock is in love.

It's just that Sherlock is so undeniably, unabashedly in love with John Watson that he can't handle the simple thought of John Watson being anything other than in utterly perfect condition with Sherlock and at home with Sherlock and _safe_ with Sherlock.

That's all it is.

Hardly anything at all besides a life-altering, world-shattering, heart-throbbing realization that if anything ever happened to this boy standing under the warm downpour of the shower tipping his head back to rinse out the shampoo, if anyone ever hurt a single hair on that blonde head…-

Well.

Sherlock wouldn't survive it.

Obviously.

"Thank you," John's muzzily words echo against the porcelain as he blinks his eyes open and runs a hand through his damp hair before nuzzling into Sherlock's soaked body, like he can't keep his hands off him either, his face pressing against Sherlock's neck and his arms snaking around Sherlock's waist.

"You're welcome," Sherlock breathes into the steam, pressing a kiss to John's warm cheek. He rubs a hand down his lover's back, tracing water rivulets racing along John's skin and tucking him closer careful of his injured shoulder, breathing in his clean partner with a satisfied sigh, the knot in his chest loosening significantly as he's pressed together tightly with his mate. He closes his eyes and drops his cheek to the top of John's head, continuing to soothe John's damaged body with soft touches and a gentle rocking, letting the pain and concern go for now because there is no use for it here.

John is okay.

They're together.

It's _fine_.

And just as he can feel the tension slowly loosening in his limbs, almost the moment he can feel his heartrate evening to a healthy pace again, right when he can actually breathe like a normal person, that's when John's firm powerful body and sluicing naked skin is turning and sliding and pressing to Sherlock's in a way the genius is absolutely not prepared for, thick hard muscles pushing up against Sherlock's slender frame, fitting against him perfectly and crowding him into the back shower wall, his back hitting the cold tile with a wet smack as John curls further into him, peppering soft kisses along his neck with care.

God, it isn't mean to sexual, of that Sherlock is certain, John isn't shoving him against the wall with some sort of urgent need but good _god_ does Sherlock feel urgent, a desperation edging all along his skin as John's wet frame surges against his with still such gentle _gentle_ touches. His lips move along Sherlock's collarbone and his tendons beneath his jaw before he's tracing just along the outer edges of Sherlock's mouth, touching reverently and carefully, still holding onto his hips and hugging him close.

And before he's conscious of it, Sherlock is sliding both his hands up into John's damp fringe, cradling his skull so carefully and pulling him in, lips meeting only for a moment before tongues take over, dipping and rolling into each other's mouths, deep and thorough and slow like it's the first time all over again, clinging on for dear life to one another as water pours over them both. John steps in closer, slotting a knee between Sherlock's thighs and oh _god_ Sherlock's hips do one long leisurely roll as his cock thickens fully straining toward the friction John's drenched skin provides. The second roll is equally languid but less coordinated as John's hips respond with a hitch of their own, slowly so slowly, painstakingly so, every movement graceful and careful and protective, silently agreeing that this between them is beautifully fragile, neither one of them willing to break it quite yet.

He's holding John's head at angle that's most likely terrible for a concussed person but he simply cannot get enough of his love's sweet, soft mouth, savoring every quiet moan and tasting the sounds on John's tongue, deciding if the boy really did have a concussion he certainly wouldn't be this alert and alive, clutching to Sherlock and Sherlock to the wall, head back and face tipped up, accepting all the delicate kisses Sherlock offers him.

"Oh Christ, I missed you," John whispers against Sherlock's lips, not moving away for a second, slick bodies still roaming against each other steadily, exploring the newness of being completely naked in one another's presence, wet skin on wet skin building a rumbling heat between them, growing and crackling the air with promises of more. Deft fingertips crawl up Sherlock's spine one vertebrae at a time with massaging little circles, swirling Sherlock's warming insides all up like fallen leaves on a windy autumn day, and goose pimples bubble up along his frame in utter delight at the touch. He pulls John's face impossibly closer, twirling their tongues together heatedly, kisses taking on an edge they hadn't held before, lips trading filthy promises back and forth between waiting mouths.

It's the most sensual foreplay they've ever had, neither moving to go further, basking in the closeness, lingering in aching touches, leaving no body part untouched, no groan unkissed, trailing tips of fingers along wet skin, dragging tongues against damp lips.

Sherlock's thumbs stroke along John's jawline as his fingers press deeper into blonde hair, unable to get enough of anything, body surging with every long kiss and smooth caress and oh _Christ_ , Sherlock just wants this beautiful boy. This strong, sexy, capable boy who has become his whole goddamn world in a matter of months, who has shown Sherlock things he's never even dreamed of, this boy who is always so careful, always so kind and diligent and _perfect_ , this boy who's been beaten down all night, close-lined, tackled, injured.

This boy.

He needs Sherlock right now and Sherlock wants to give him everything. Sherlock _needs_ to take care of John Watson tonight.

Energy thrums in his veins, the shock and panic and worry of the evening heightening his adrenaline for so long with nowhere for the excess to go, leaving him feeling high strung and tightly wound like a rubber band ready to snap in half, the slowness in their movements intensifying his every emotion and every nerve, his body becoming a live wire reacting to every little touch and the way John's hands begin to race all along his back and shoulders, Sherlock has a sneaky feeling his lover is in the exact same boat, slow caresses building on each other until slow is no longer doing it for either of them, need winding them together restlessly, the nude snogging session in a warm shower just not quiet enough for either one of their sensitive bodies.

"Sherlock," John moans his name into the steam surrounding them, the sound wanton and breathless, like he just can't help it and it _does_ things to the genius boy, conjures up thoughts in his head and sends little shivers down his spine because all he wants to do, right now in this moment, is to make John Watson feel so fucking _good_.

He tugs John's bottom lip between his own and bites, a promise between his teeth falling into John's mouth, reveling in the groan he gets in return and his long fingers squeeze gently into John's fringe. "Yeah," is his incoherent response and he loosens his grip long enough to turn the taps off because as good as this is, as _hot_ as this is, it's also incredibly dangerous, nothing but slick tiled hard walls all around them and if that hurt shoulder of John's bumps up against any one of them, there will be absolutely nothing sexy about any of this.

Cool air swirls around them as Sherlock drags the shower curtain back, John's pliant and soft body still plastered up against his clearly having no intentions of moving away, dropping quiet kisses to his collarbone and neck as the genius boy gropes for a towel on the rack mounted up on the wall. He holds John to him, also unwilling to let go, as he finally finds his target and gives John and himself a cursory pat down, his limbs beginning to shake with the need to lay John out and worship every inch of him, veins humming with the need for _more_.

The journey to the bed is a very slow, very careful one. Sherlock's big hand is wrapped snuggly around the base of John's neck, the other wound around John's hips, securing him safely and unbearably closely, their erections brushing together every step of the way, damp skin sliding together in a way that makes Sherlock shiver all over but, dammit, they need to be _careful_ with John's shoulder no matter how urgently they need to be on each other, the injury takes priority. The rugby player for his part is looped around Sherlock's waist like his life depends on it, arms locked in a circle, chest pressed to chest, face raised, expecting and accepting more kisses as they make their tantalizingly bordering on torturously unhurried walk to the bed, seemingly happy to be caressed and loved on and taken delicate care of, soft little pleased sounds rumbling in his chest at Sherlock's every ministration.

There is something equally thrilling and terrifying about this, holding someone so solid and sturdy in his hands with such delicacy, taking such careful care of the person who is always taking careful care of Sherlock. He gets to hold the most precious thing in his world as close to him as possible and John, always most concerned with Sherlock's state of well-being, lets him.

It is, in a word, _glorious_.

And when he finally lays John down in the unmade bed so _so_ gently, careful not to jostle his shoulder as the rugby player rolls onto his right, and Sherlock crawls in beside him, worry frays his nerves just a little as John pulls him close but even still it feels so damn _good_ to be like this.

"Your- your shoulder..." Sherlock stutters in way of protest which is becoming increasingly difficult as his bare skin slides deliciously along linen sheets beneath him and a firm sexy rugby player presses to his front.

"Is fine," John whispers as he delves his tongue back into Sherlock's mouth, twirling them together until he can pull a moan from the genius boy's throat. "Just can't lay on my left side is all."

"Okay," Sherlock murmurs back because really he has absolutely no interest in stopping anything that's going on, pleasure rolling slowly around his belly as John takes his time to kiss him thoroughly, rough fingertips gliding down his back and over his hips, trailing along his sides and forcing a shiver to race down his spine.

"I missed you so much, baby," John moans quietly, lips pressing daintily to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, trailing a line of kisses along his cheek.

"John," is Sherlock's hazy reply, clutching the boy tightly to him, hips stuttering forward helplessly as John lavishes his neck with tongue and teeth gently nipping at sensitive skin, his cock throbbing where it sits rubbing against his own stomach and John's hard abdominals, begging for more attention than the warm cocoon it's currently in.

"You beautiful thing," John is breathing against his lip, pulling Sherlock's leg up and over John's hip and hauling him closer, tighter, harder. "God, how did I survive three days away from you? How?"

"John." It seems to be the only thing he's capable of saying as John's strong body wraps around him, safe and sure, his warm touch doing nothing to hinder the need coursing through Sherlock's veins, zings of dangerous pleasure spiking hotly beneath his skin as John's erection bumps against his own. " _Ah_... god-"

"Baby," John whispers, letting Sherlock roll his hips over and over, encouraging the closeness with a squeeze to the back of his thigh. "Yes, love."

"John," Sherlock mutters again, mouth opening against John's shoulder, sinking his teeth shallowly into the skin there. Christ, it's so good, it feels so good and John is right here, sturdy and naked and glorious and if he could just move a little more, right _there_ -

It's the smallest thing in the world. A hitch of breath, almost silent, bitten off and swallowed back down but harsh enough to sharpen Sherlock's senses and it's only when he feels the body against his go rigid and pull back just enough to remove all sensitive touch from that it hits him.

He scrambles back, pushing to the right of John's chest and away, good god _away_ from that furious bruise, a stone sinking heavily to the pit of his stomach as he sits up and back, cold dread icing his veins entirely. "Oh god John I'm sorry, I'm so _so_ sorry, I told you we shouldn't, I said you needed to ice it, god is it bad how bad is it did I make it worse oh god I'm sorry I'm so so sorry-"

"Hey," John cuts him off gently, gingerly sitting up and rotating his shoulder as his good hand reaches for both Sherlock's where they fidget in his lap worriedly, eyes locked on John's blackening shoulder, shame twisting in his chest that he chose his own need over the healing of his lover like some spoiled immature idiot. "Hey," John says again, giving his hands a little jostle and dragging Sherlock's attention away from his arm and back up to his face, features soft and ruddy, lips cherry red from the furious snogging they'd been indulging in, smile crooked and encouraging. "I'm okay," he murmurs into the space between them, running a thumb along the back of Sherlock's hand. "I promise you love, I'm fine. You have nothing to apologize for. It's just a little sore is all."

"It's turning a horrible shade of blue," Sherlock argues accusatorily and points at it, not sure if his eyes are tricking him or if it is actually going darker even as he stares at it. "You're not fine. And you- John stop _moving_ it, Christ."

He just barely catches himself from clamping a hand down on his boyfriend's shoulder to physically stop him from doing another rotation, but it's a close thing. He settles for a hand on John's wrist and a glare. "That's quite literally the worst thing you can do when you've dislocated your shoulder and you, Mister Pre-mMed should know that."

The annoyance in John's features is lightened by the quirking of his mouth threatening to fall into a full on grin, the one he gets when he thinks Sherlock has done something quite clever, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "It wasn't a _full-on_ dislocation," he challenges with a raised brow.

"It was close enough," Sherlock lobs back, ignoring the cold shiver at the memory of John lying on the muddy ground. "You need to ice it and leave it immobile for at least 48 hours."

John stares evenly back at him. "I'm _fine_ , Sherlock."

"Your shoulder isn't, _John_ ," Sherlock replies, leaning on his lover's name harder than necessary, mimicking him childishly.

The rugby player sighs. "Seriously. It's completely-"

"Don't say fine again-"

" _Okay_ ," John corrects at the last second. "It's entirely okay. Can you just please-"

"John I swear to god-"

"Sherlock it's not-"

"Yes it really is-"

"Sherlock, come on-"

"John."

"It's not-"

"John."

"Sherlock I-"

" _John_!" Sherlock all but yells sharply, throwing his hands in the air and glaring at John with all his might. "It's not _fine_ , okay?! You are hurt, you are in _pain_ and you need to take care of yourself. And if you won't do, I bloody well will so lay back right this instant and don't move until I return with your ice pack!"

John opens his mouth clearly to protest but Sherlock beats him to it, holding up a hand immediately. "Don't," he snaps, quite finished with this stubborn little game his boyfriend wants to play. He is hurt and he needs to stop acting like he isn't. "Just sit there quietly. I'll be right back."

And with that, Sherlock and his naked arse make their way back to the bathroom, fury burning the back of his throat and he can't even be concerned about his nudity at this point because John Watson needs to be cared for since the boy clearly won't take care of or even watch out for himself.

Armed with the somewhat melting ice block, Sherlock marches his way back over to his boyfriend and begins fixing the pack against his damaged shoulder, ignoring ocean blue eyes staring up at him steadily and busying himself with re-fluffing pillows and ensuring the ice pack is firmly in place, scowling at the deep purple coloring the outsides of John's bruising shoulder.

"Hm." John makes a soft inquisitive, though pleased sounds.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, ignoring his boyfriend's light shifting and shoving at the pillows around him harder than necessary. "What?"

"You're all... serious," John says and Sherlock glances up to find that big brilliant smile gleaming at him in full force, all traces of frustration gone, just glimmering blue eyes and pretty white teeth beaming at him.

"Yes, well you're an idiot," Sherlock mumbles, ignoring the blood rushing into his cheeks at the sight and continuing to find things to do to make John more comfortable.

"You're very bossy," John continues, ignoring the jab and reaching for Sherlock's hand where it's puffing up the comforter forcing him to stop his movements and lacing their fingers together. "You're strutting around here naked and demanding, taking such good care of me." Blue eyes glitter up at him, as dark as the night sky, as deep as the ocean. "It's very sexy."

Heat floods Sherlock's insides all over again as his lover stares up at him with intensity and honesty and such aching affection it's like the ice interlude never even happened, the urge to touch and taste and pleasure consuming him all over again, the world around him falling away once more and narrowing in on his beautiful partner laying hard and golden against white sheets. He swallows thickly, focusing on the way John's thumb strokes against his wrist.

"I promise to be good," John whispers up at him like they're sharing a naughty secret which Sherlock supposes they are, smile curving his mouth sweetly. "I'll lay here and not move the ice or my arm at all. I promise." He pauses and takes a breath, tugging Sherlock toward the bed again. "But please will you just... come back here? Come back to bed? We don't have to do anything. I..." he steals himself again and drops his gaze to Sherlock's chest. "I just want to hold you. Three days is... a long time."

A happy warmth blooms in Sherlock's abdomen and grows quickly, spreading out to his limbs and filling him from head to toe with tenderness for this boy, this boy he's so incredibly in love with, this boy he wants to wrap himself around and never ever let go.

This boy.

John Watson.

This boy is _everything_ to him.

A bold confidence he has no business having settles his mind and without preamble he climbs onto the bed and swings a leg over John's hips straddling him, careful not to jostle his shoulder, watching in pure delight as John's blue eyes dilate, pink lips dropping open as he takes in the sight before him. "Jesus," he breathes, drinking Sherlock in on his lap like he can't quite believe his luck, running his palms up and down Sherlock's thighs in soothing lines.

"Is this okay?" Sherlock can't help asking, trying and failing not to grin as John shoots him an incredulous look.

"Are you kidding?" John says hoarsely, dragging fingertips along Sherlock's bare skin. "Yes, this is okay. My god. This is very very okay. You are perfect."

And that's why.

That's why Sherlock can be so certain.

 _This_ is where he's gotten his new confidence from. This is how he can be so sure of himself. Right here. This is it. He can be daring and brave and walk around naked like it's nothing. He can get on a five-hour train ride to surprise his love. He can crawl into his boyfriend's lap with clear intent no problem.

Because John believes in him. Because John supports him. Because John's words and caresses and affection have given Sherlock more strength and courage than he's ever had before, only ever lifting him up, giving him bravery he's never known, making him daring and self-assured.

John has given him so damn much and it's so easy now, to give for and ask for what he wants, to make the first move, to love and be loved. It's beautiful to feel this free, this comfortable, this _happy_.

He places his hands against John's chest, feeling the rise and fall as he breathes deeply, air stuttering out as Sherlock's fingers dance lightly along his pectorals. "I want to do something," he finds himself murmuring, mesmerized by the tanned skin beneath his hands fluttering under his touch.

"Anything," is the immediate response from the boy beneath him, practically moaning as Sherlock traces a pink nipple, biting his lip as he watches it pebble to hardness before he drags a finger pad over top it, swallowing his own groan as John squirms. "Fuck, _anything_ love."

And with all his newly found confidence, all his bravado and boldness, Sherlock still can't bring himself to say the actual words, a blush creeping into his cheeks as he even thinks it and he ducks down, suddenly desperate to lick John's warm darkening skin and hide his hot face, deciding it might go better if he shows instead of tells, setting to work on trailing his wet lips and tongue all along John's firm sternum.

The rugby player keens beneath him, only stoking the fire burning bright in Sherlock's lower region and Sherlock can't help his traveling tongue as it makes its way to one of John's perk little nipples and flicks against it, feeling the hard skin wiggle beneath his touch.

"Oh Jesus," John gasps. "Your mouth is wicked."

"Just wait," Sherlock whispers against his lover's skin, John's words fueling his plan yet again. "I'm not done with you yet."

"God I hope you're never done with me," John groans, petting a hand through Sherlock's curls restlessly, body tipping upward, silently asking for more.

Oh _Christ_ this is thrilling, watching John squirm and moan because of things Sherlock is doing, making such a beautiful boy find pleasure beneath Sherlock's fingertips. God, he wants to make John come. He wants to bring him to orgasm like he's never wanted anything before, wants to watch John arch his back and roll his hips, wants to hear John make such pretty little noises for him, Sherlock wants it so goddamn _badly_.

Licking his way down the fit line of the rugby player's hard stomach, Sherlock can't help giggling as firm fingers grip his curls just a little tighter, riding the shake of John's stomach beneath his lips as the blond twists and curses.

"Sorry," John whispers, loosening his grasp immediately and soothing a hand down Sherlock's back. "A bit ticklish right there."

"Hm," Sherlock agrees with a grin, continuing away from the spot, though storing the information in the back of his mind for later, and trickling his hot breath down, down, down, chin grazing over a line of blonde hair as he moves lower. The hairs are so soft, curling slightly at the tips and Sherlock hovers over them, feeling them brush against his skin like gentle tendrils, imagining every part of his lover's body straining toward his touch.

"Love."

The word is hoarse and quiet and somehow still wrapped in such emotion, the single syllable snuggling itself into Sherlock's heart and spreading to define every fiber of his being and he stays still for just a moment longer to revel in it, enjoying the shiver running rampant in his veins, enjoying the way the word wraps around him like a cozy blanket. A short finger tucks itself beneath his chin and lifts, bringing his face upward toward the bright shining light that is his beautiful partner.

John's pupils are blown to the brink, a sliver of navy still circling black but only just, his chest and cheeks pink as a grapefruit, stomach muscles clenched and gorgeous where he's crunched upward to reach for Sherlock. His tanned fingers trace the edge of the genius boy's jaw, curling beneath and stroking a thumb along his chin. He looks sinfully delicious splayed out in the sheets naked with his lover between his thighs and Sherlock is becoming desperate to devour him.

"Are-" John starts and stops to take a deep breath, the words getting caught in his throat. He closes those beautiful eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply and exhaling. When he reopens them, his face is serious and still so pink and Sherlock wants to kiss it all over. "Are you sure?" John murmurs, thumb still moving along Sherlock's face. "You don't have to... I don't want you doing anything you're not comfortable with."

A lazy, love-drunk smile tips the genius boy's lips upward and he beams right back at his partner, that fuzzy feeling in his system stronger than ever, his heart growing three sizes and threatening to burst free from his chest as he watches his boyfriend in all his nude glory pause all pleasure and check in on Sherlock.

It's so ridiculous and a bit silly and so bloody romantic that Sherlock can't help nuzzling his nose into the skin between John's belly button and groin with a grin, basking in the soft gasp that falls from John's lips.

"Oh I'm sure," Sherlock murmurs between kisses to warm skin. "I am so very sure."

And with that, he takes a deep breath, slides gracefully further down the bed, catches John's eye, refusing to look away, and slips his cupid's bowed lips over John's velvety cockhead.

It's so warm, salty liquid melting into his mouth and he flicks his tongue out over the slit to taste properly, another burst of muted flavor burying into his taste buds and he closes his eyes to savor the newness, holding himself still long enough to file away the taste. Only then does he sink down further, the feeling of hard flesh pressing into his mouth a wholly new and fascinating experience, the texture so unique and different. He moves the flat of his tongue up the underside and drags his mouth back up the full length, humming in delight as another drop of come falls to the inside of his lip.

" _Fuck_ ," John cries suddenly, snapping the k off between clenched teeth like he's been holding it back for too long and Sherlock jerks in surprise, glancing up to make sure everything is alright, hoping to god that that was a good curse and not an _oh god Sherlock is horrible at this_ curse, because Sherlock is in this now, he wants this, he wants to continue and never ever stop because this is goddamn incredible.

What he finds above him answers his question immediately and his insides go all gooey at the sight, pride filling him to the brim as he takes in the harsh curve of John's frame where he's sitting up and, Christ, _watching_ Sherlock take his cock in his mouth, faced flushed a dark red, lips bitten-pink and gaping just below deeply blue eyes taking in everything before him, knuckles stark white where they're clenched into the sheets, the rugby player looking the part of a boy wrapped up in ecstasy so exquisitely it makes Sherlock's erection throb against the mattress.

Alright then.

Good.

So Sherlock goes back to work.

He drops back downward a little further and further, eyes never leaving John's curved frame, until cock hits the back of his throat, settling between his tonsils comfortably and blocks his airway for just a moment, making him feel terribly, deliciously naughty with the knowledge that he can actually do this.

And suddenly it's like cutting the strings of a marionette.

John's whole body falls back down to the bed, head slamming into the pillow as he moans out right, hips thrusting upward as if at their own accord and he stills them immediately, with clear effort as Sherlock gags just slightly, body trembling as he wills himself to freeze. "Sorry, sorry," he murmurs helplessly, and Sherlock preens like a bloody peacock, the sight of John like this doing so many _things_ to him.

He pulls off a bit, though not all the way, licking at the head of John's cock delicately and smirking at he watches his lover's hands reach halfway toward him before catching himself and pulling them back, John clearly attempting to keep himself respectful and under control but god Sherlock doesn't want him to be restrained, not even a little bit.

How he wants John Watson to lose control all at the hands of Sherlock Holmes.

"Touch me," Sherlock breathes, eyes widening in wicked glee as goose pimples bubble up along John's thighs under Sherlock's hot breath.

"Wh-what?" John stutters, raising his head to stare at his lover with hooded eyes.

"Put your hands in my hair," Sherlock replies, glancing up at John from beneath his lashes, open mouth hovering over John's dick. He grins. "I like it." Then he's on his way back down, gathering John into his mouth as far as he can, feeling so sinfully good he can hardly stand it, the heaviness of John against his tongue something he'd never realized he'd longed for until this very moment, the taste and feel of John's thickness between his lips _doing_ things to him like never before.

"Christ!" John gasps, and to Sherlock's delight, buries his hands in the genius boy's curls, riding the movement as Sherlock bobs carefully up and down his hard shaft. "Oh god, where- my god, baby _where_ did you learn this?"

It's hard to smirk with a cock in his mouth but Sherlock makes a valiant effort as he sucks all the way up John's erection until he can let go with a wet pop. "The internet," he replies cheekily before going right back to work, sucking and licking steadily, ignoring the slight ache in his jaw and focusing on the way his nerves light up like a Christmas tree every time John gasps or groans or swears.

"God bless the internet," John moans above him and Sherlock can't help the chuckle that hums in his throat and vibrates his lips against his lover's erection. "Ooooh my good god," John gasps, fingers tightening in ringlets and pulling slightly, a feeble attempt to dislodge him as John thrashes against the sheets. "Oh fuck baby, oh Christ, I'm gonna come. You don't-... fuck, you can't... I can't... _baby_..."

Every jumbled word and shallow thrust of John's hips tells Sherlock one beautiful thing, excited little bursts rippling along his skin as John tugs just right at his curls and he sinks down as far as he can, burying his nose in the hairs at the base of John's erection, simultaneously burying that cock in his mouth and without thinking twice, he does the last thing he'd read about.

He swallows.

"Oh fuck _, Sherlock_!" John's whole body convulses and he's suddenly spilling thickly onto Sherlock's tongue, no longer the tiny drops of precome but a full-on _flood_ of liquid filling his mouth and sneaking down the back of his throat, and he coughs slightly but doesn't let up, unable to stop, desperately needing to hear his love moan his name.

"Oh Jesus, oh Christ," John is muttering under his breath raggedly, twitching and jerking through his orgasm before he finally goes boneless against the sheets, grip loosening in Sherlock's hair and petting at him gracelessly. "Sherlock, my god Sherlock. Baby. _Christ_."

And just like that, just as John falls back against the pillows and catches his breath, just as Sherlock has licked and sucked and swallowed him clean, just as everything calms to a gentle lull, suddenly the genius boy is yet again on fucking _fire_.

Need wracks his slender frame, silent tremors racing along his limbs, entire body suddenly on edge and he drops his hot cheek down on John's thigh, panting out a gasp as his aching cock brushes against the sheets where it sits heavy between his legs. "John," he groans, rolling his hips helplessly and unable to stop himself from reaching down to stroke urgently, his dick harder than it's ever been after multiple minutes of listening to his gorgeous lover moan beautifully from ministrations Sherlock himself provided.

"Oh love yes," John whispers above him as a hand lays softly on the back of his head, clearly still coming back from his orgasm but giving a solid effort in assisting Sherlock's. "Touch yourself."

A bitten off cry escapes his mouth and Sherlock bites down on his lip, rocking up to his knees and laying his weight against the palm of his other hand, palm rubbing himself steadily as he glances up under hooded eyes to find his lover staring right back.

Perched on his good arm, John curves his fingers around Sherlock's jaw and strokes a thumb along his bottom lip. "You are the most beautiful thing in the world," he murmurs, red cheeks dimpling as he smiles softly, before the softness turns mischievous and somewhat predatory as he smirks. "Beautiful and downright dirty," he teases, slipping his thumb in between Sherlock's teeth. "Learning all those tricks for me. Doing research. You naughty thing, so goddamn gorgeous."

Oh Christ, it _is_ dirty and Sherlock groans around that finger, biting down softly as his cock pulses against the comforter, hips rocking forward quicker with the knowledge of what he's just done and how much his partner clearly enjoyed it and oh god, oh _god_.

"It felt so good Sherlock, your mouth on me like that," John continues whispering filthily to him and Sherlock practically sobs, his lover's words heightening his sensitivity like nothing he's ever felt before. "Your beautiful _beautiful_ mouth."

"John," Sherlock cries, sucking John's thumb deep into his mouth, pressing his tongue to it as his hips jerk. " _John_."

"And just so you know, love," John murmurs, leaning closer and grinning this Cheshire Cat like devilish little smile. "I plan to return the favor."

And that's what does it.

Hips thrust forward uncoordinatedly and Sherlock cries out unable to keep himself quiet as his orgasm crests and crashes over him, wave after wave of blissful pleasure as John continues to touch and soothe him through it, whispering tenderly down at him as Sherlock moans and shakes and works himself through it, focused solely on his boyfriend's soft words and the pleasure spiraling his insides gloriously. Days and days of pent up frustration flow freely from him, wringing him dry and he gasps with the relief of it, entire body quivering as he pulses over and over.

The last bit of come takes his energy with it and Sherlock collapses forward, pressing his forehead to John's belly, whimpering quietly as he removes his hand from his erection, tiny earthquakes still rocking through him in short bursts. It's silent in the small hotel room as Sherlock catches his breath, panting into warm skin, letting the feel of John's fingers through his hair lull him back to calmness, still shuddering every now and again as he comes down.

"Come here," John whispers to him after a long moment, soft words coaxing him out of his completely relaxed state. "Come up here."

Moving sluggishly and a little gingerly, body still over sensitive and shaky, Sherlock crawls his way up John's frame on hands and knees and collapses to his right side with a huff, feeling drowsy and warm and content, snuffling into John's outstretched arm.

"Best surprise ever," John says as he drops a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "Seriously."

"Mm," is Sherlock's lazy reply, eyelids drooping as he's surrounded by john Watson, feeling quite drunk on his enormous love for his partner. He pauses and glances up, squinting one eye open. "Which surprise?"

"Cheeky git," John giggles, prodding fingers into Sherlock's side and pulling a yelp from his mouth. "All the surprises. Every single one was fantastic."

"Good," Sherlock replies around a yawn, peering up at John with sleepy eyes. "That's all I wanted was to make you happy."

"You make me happy every day." John presses his lips to Sherlock's before tucking him back in against his side and settling in. Sherlock pulls the covers up over their sated bodies and burrows in for the night, vaguely wondering if the ice pack is still on John's shoulder and deciding he can't be arsed to care at the moment.

"Hey," John murmurs into his curls. "Hey love."

"Hm?"

"I'm really glad you're here."

"Hm."

John laughs. "Let's talk about it tomorrow."

Or at least, that's what Sherlock thinks he's saying because by the time he hears the last words, he's completely asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING!!
> 
> We're having a constant lovefest on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come join in! XO!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW THIS IS A DAY LATER THAN PROMISED IM SORRY!! 
> 
> _As per usual: THANK YOU SO MUCH to my darling wonderful ishaveforsherl! You keep me right, babe! LOVE YOU!_  

"Okay so, I don't know how to say this without being really weird or sounding really weird and making things weird. I don't want anything getting weird."

Glancing up from where he's untying and peeling off his practice boots, grimacing as his rain-soaked socks squelch unpleasantly against the linoleum floor, John glances up toward his teammate with a frown. "What?"

Shuffling his feet where he stands in front of the bench John is currently seated at inside the locker room, Paul's eyes are wide and glancing to the side uncomfortably, fingers twisting at his naval. "I don't want anything to be weird."

It's been a long, wet evening and John is not really in the mood for word play right now, irritation prickling the back of his neck as sweat and rain dries thick and cold along his skin. He really just wants to go home right now and take a hot shower.

"Yeah, I got that part," he nods and waves his hand for Paul to continue, brow furrowed at his friend's odd behavior. "What exactly is going to make things weird?"

"Did you tell him?!" Mike crows as he swings an arm around Paul's neck and jostles him with a grin back and forth between the two boys, his round cheeks still bright red from the chilled damp practice they'd just endured for the last hour. "Did you tell him about tonight?!"

"Christ, get _off_ me," Paul complains with a half-hearted shove at Mike's side. "Ugh and you smell by the way."

"Oi, I'll shower before the club," Mike replies, unfazed as he swipes fingers through his still sweaty fringe and wipes them on the front of his practice jersey like the gentleman he is. "I gotta get myself gorgeous for our evening out anyway, right?"

"Club?" John's brow raises, a grin threatening to tip his mildly shocked mouth upward as he glances between his teammates, interest piqued. "What club?"

"You didn't tell him?!" Mike barks in outrage. "Mate, he needs to _know_!"

"Uh-" Paul starts and stops, eyes flickering from John to Mike for a long moment before Mike interrupts his hesitation with an annoyed huff in his direction then promptly beaming at John like he's only just come up with the most brilliant idea of all time, a usual feature of the rugby player.

"We are clubbing tonight and you and Sherlock are coming!"

A burst of laughter falls from John's mouth, Mike's excitement always absurdly contagious. "Is that so?"

"Um-" Paul tries again, still looking slightly pained before Mike leans in again conspiratorially.

"A _gay_ club," he mock whispers, waggling his brows like he's just told them a very naughty secret, nodding at them both like they clearly need to get on board with this plan immediately since it's so excellent. "It's going to awesome."

"Right," John is still giggling, offering a shrug at Paul considering they obviously can't say no to a joyous Mike Stamford like this, not that he really wants to anyway. He hasn't been to a real club in ages and he's been trying to find new things to take his boyfriend out to do anyway. He has no idea if Sherlock has ever been to a club before but so what if he hasn't? It'll be a new experience for the genius. John grins at the thought and turns to Paul. "Well that sounds like fun. Why would that be weird?"

"Er- because…" Paul mumbles, gaze darting downward as he raises a hand to rub the back of his neck. "Um…Irene invited us?"

"Really?" John asks, cocking his head to the side in amused surprise. "You chat with Irene, do you?"

Paul shuffles his feet as Mike grins at him. "A bit."

" _All_ the _time_ ," Mike amends smugly with a fond roll of his eyes, raising his brows at John and tossing a pointed thumb at their teammate. "This fucker thinks this weird crush he has on a hot lesbian is going to somehow go somewhere. It's adorable."

"Shut up! I don't have a crush!" Paul argues, ears going pink at the accusation and shaking himself free of Mike's grasp, swinging his bag forcefully onto his shoulder, ignoring his teammate's laughter. "Shut up," he grumbles again. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Suuuuure I don't," Mike mocks with a smirk at John. "Whatever you say."

"You are the living worst, did you know that?" Paul glares, before leveling a gaze at John with a sigh, emphatically ignoring Mike beside him. "So? Are you coming or not?"

It's impossible not to laugh at the display in front of him which doesn't win John any love from Paul who huffs and turns to go. "Whatever," he gripes as he makes his way toward the door. "You both are arseholes."

"Aw come on Paul!" Mike cries, shouldering his own bag and hurrying after him still giggling. "Don't be like that! I bet she'll give you a shot one day!" He spins back around and jogs backwards for a moment, waving at John with a smile. "See you tonight Johnny Boy! Don't forget to tell Sherlock!" He narrowly misses running into the door before he's yanking it open and following Paul out.

"Couple a wankers, our teammates," Greg grumbles, dropping down beside John to undo his own laces. "Their maturity level is astounding to me."

John chuckles, tucking his boots away and shoving his feet into his worn-out trainers. "I hate to break it to Paul but Mike is kind of right. A crush on a girl who likes girls is going to go nowhere fast."

He doesn't mention the fact that he doesn't care all that much for Irene or the way she seems to have some odd connection with Sherlock that John can't quite understand. He doesn't dislike her by any means. He just…

"Eh, I'm not so sure it's Irene Paul is so keen on," Greg smirks, winking at John like they're in on the same joke.

John blinks. "What do you mean?"

"You really haven't noticed?"

"Noticed what?"

"Ah," Greg nods, leaning back a bit in a poor attempt of being casual, returning to stuff his practice gear into his bag. "Never mind."

"Hey no come on," John argues, zipping his own kit away safely and glaring at his friend. "You have to tell me now."

Shrugging with clear effort, Greg goes to stand. "I suppose we'll see tonight."

"You're coming with?" the blond boy grins, shaking his head at his teammate. "I'm shocked, Cap. You never come out with us."

"Myc's out of town," Greg smirks. "And when the boyfriend is away…"

"…the other boyfriend babysits the little brother of aforementioned boyfriend?" John teases, laughing as Greg rolls his eyes.

"Hey, that's no longer my job now that we have you." Greg points a finger at him, biting his bottom lip on a stupid smile.

It's John's turn to roll his eyes. "Not a babysitter," he says with a glare, still a little indignant at the idea that he is dating Sherlock Holmes for any other reason besides the fact that he's head over heels.

His captain simply laughs, shaking his head and spinning on his heel. "I'll see you tonight Johnny Boy."

"Oi, this conversation isn't over!" John calls after him, though the only response he receives is a chuckle as the door closes behind his Captain.

With a heavy, put upon sigh, John tugs his phone free and swings the strap of his bag over his shoulder, stomach growling as he taps out a fruitless text to his roommate about dinner plans, feet already carrying him toward the exit, attempting and failing to sort out exactly what his lover will think of their new plans for the evening.  
  


 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Laying supine along the bed, long legs stretched out and relaxed, fingers steepled against his plush pouty lips, Sherlock Holmes looks as gorgeous and as lazy as John left him this morning, spread out along the comforter like some tired king completely exhausted from his day of doing absolutely nothing.

It's a little crazy that the sight of this brilliant boy still sends John's heart racing, a fond grin already tipping the corners of his mouth upward at the view of his lover all long and lean against his sheets. He tosses his bag onto his desk chair and crawls up on the bed.

"Hello you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's cheek as he settles down beside him along the comforter, splaying a hand along his boyfriend's belly and propping himself up on an elbow to get the best view of the boy in his bed.

Sherlock startles slightly like he really didn't hear John come in and turns his head just enough to look directly at the rugby player, grey eyes lidded and dark, going softer at the sight before him, adorably rumpled and cozy in a grey long sleeve t-shirt and striped pajama bottoms.

"What are you doing?" John whispers, happy warmth spreading all along his limbs at the view before him, attempting to keep the quiet mood with hushed words and low tones, only barely keeping himself from curling around the genius like a vine.

"Thinking," Sherlock replies with a hint of annoyance in his voice, though he leans into John's touch where his fingers have found their way into wild curls, scratching lightly along his scalp in soothing drags.

Giggling, John presses his nose into Sherlock's cheek, convinced 'thinking' is Sherlock speak for 'sleeping', and indulges himself in a bit of nuzzling his partner's soft skin. "What were you thinking about?"

"How's the shoulder?"

The change of topic only fuels the speculation that Sherlock was most definitely napping but John lets it go, rolling up to a sitting position and raising his arm all the way up, fingers pointing straight to the ceiling as he rotates it back and forth. "Really good," he says excitedly because it _is_ really good, hardly even twinging anymore, the bruising finally toning down to a dull yellowish green. "I threw a ball today and the trainer said I can start tackling again in a few days. Should be ready to rock for the game next weekend."

Something like worry flashes through green eyes before Sherlock masks it with indifference, a cool blankness that doesn't fool John Watson for a moment, trained all too well by now in the features of his boyfriend. "Well. I wouldn't overdo it," Sherlock says haughtily, inspecting a spot of balled fabric along the comforter like this conversation doesn't interest him in the least, refusing to look anywhere near John. "You never know what kinds of injuries can go acting up again later on."

"Advice noted and appreciated," John smiles hoping it comes off as reassuring without giving away the fact that he is fully aware exactly what's going on here. While he doesn't want to make his boyfriend worry, John sort of loves that Sherlock worries and cares for him so much and equally adores the way the boy attempts to pretend he doesn't; it's incredibly endearing. Which is why John can't be obvious about the fact that he knows exactly what's going on here. "I'll keep an eye on it and make sure to check in with the trainer constantly."

"Do as you like," Sherlock replies flippantly with a flick of his wrist like this matter couldn't be any more boring, but John knows better and takes the opportunity to lay back down and cuddle his genius, silently promising that he will pay closer attention to his shoulder in the coming weeks, careful not to overdo it. For Sherlock.

The genius boy snuggles closer, pressing a kiss to John's forehead, the kind of affection that's become much more comfortable and much more frequent since the epic evening of Sherlock surprising him only a week previous and John grins up at him, squeezing Sherlock's middle where John's arms are wrapped around him. "Lazy git," he teases as Sherlock yawns dramatically. "Come on, up you get. We've got plans this evening."

Sherlock's brow crinkles in confusion and John pushes up to a sitting position. "Is that so?"

"Yes," John replies with a sly grin, hopping off the bed and heading to his closet. "Big plans."

He can practically hear his roommate contemplating taking the bait before resigning himself to curiosity. "What are they?"

Tugging his shirt over his head and tossing it in the hamper, John grins over his shoulder. "You'd better find something to wear, gorgeous. I'm taking you out tonight."

Sherlock's silver eyes seem to go a little hazy, staring for a long moment at John's shoulder blades, slowly trailing down the muscles of his back and landing at the dimples of his hips for far longer than necessary before blinking upward, apparently only just hearing John's words, curling toward a sitting position and clearly perking up a bit, mouth twitching at the corners. "Out?" he asks with bright eyes, swinging his feet over the edge of the mattress. "Out where?"

Deciding not to answer for the moment, John elects instead to drop his rugby shorts, leaving only his boxer briefs hugging his thighs and reaching up into his closet to thumb through his shirts, feigning a deep focus on the items hanging before him and purposefully ignoring his lover practically vibrating with interest behind him. It's a bit vain he knows, to flaunt himself like a two-penny tart in front of his already official lover but god almighty he does love to tease Sherlock Holmes and the fact that that boy has said more than once how much he adores John's fit body, it's rather difficult to stop himself from offering up a little skin every now and then, put on a little show while he dangles unknown plans in front of his boyfriend with clear intent on how the night will be ending.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock tries again, though John doesn't miss the breathlessness in his words and before he can turn or respond, long arms are wrapping around his shoulders and a lengthy frame is pressing to his back, a cold nose pressing into the skin below his ear as kisses fall along his neck. "Tell me where we're going."

Reaching up to curl his hands around Sherlock's forearms, John leans his head back and snuggles into his partner's shoulder, smiling up at him slyly, indulging in the attention. "How do you feel about dancing?" he murmurs, stroking palms along Sherlock's arms.

The warmth in Sherlock's grey irises clouds over as his easy smile slips from his face. He stares for a long moment, gaze shifting along John's face up and down, back and forth, pupils dilating with deductions and processing before he huffs, features hardening to something dark and cold, unwinding himself from John and taking a step back. "Oh," he says sharply, all traces of softness completely gone, sharp cheekbones practically glinting as his features harden. "You spoke to Irene."

"I spoke to Paul and Mike, actually," John says with a frown, reaching toward his partner, already mourning the loss of that loving touch but Sherlock steps back again.

"She invited your team?!" Anger flashes bright in Sherlock's eyes and he turns away ignoring John's outstretched hand and tossing his own in the air. "That meddling little-"

"What's the matter?" John asks, worry creeping around his thoughts as he watches Sherlock pace back and forth. "Did she talk to you about this already?"

"She did and I said no," Sherlock barks, storming to his desk and dropping down heavily into his chair. "We're not going."

Standing there in only pants and attempting to ignore the chill seeping into his bones, John feels terribly thrown as he stares at his partner's back. "What's going on?"

Sherlock shifts in his seat. "We're not going," he repeats.

"Yeah I heard you," John bites back. "Why not? The lads are very excited to go out with us, apparently, Irene and Paul have struck up quite a friendship. Why don't you want to go?"

The genius he shares a room with doesn't deign to dignify that with an answer, busying himself with a plethora of slides scattered around his desk and focusing his eyes into the microscope lenses again, ignoring the question and conversation altogether.

Silence falls in the small room, all traces of tender quiet completely obliterated as John stares at that curly head of hair staunchly ignoring him only a few meters away, his half naked body too shocked to react feeling as though a door was just slammed in his face considering his lover just firmly shut him out of all further communication with a few short movements.

It takes one lengthy second for what exactly is happening to sink in, John's mental gears always a bit slower than his partner's, comments and attitudes shifting and changing until John sees the picture clearly and then.

And then John finds himself helpless against an adoring grin threatening to split his face in two.

"Sherlock Holmes," he says around a smile. "Are you afraid to go to a club?"

"I'm not afraid," Sherlock snaps immediately before clamping his mouth shut and doubling down on ignoring, focusing on his slides with renewed intensity, shoulders hunched and tense all over. "I'm just not going."

Biting harshly at his lower lip in an attempt to quell the ridiculously soppy look on his face, John steps a little closer to his partner, unable to keep his heart from filling up with complete and utter adoration ready to burst with so much affection for this boy he can hardly stand it. "Sherlock," he tries again as he gets closer, secretly hoping for push back again, the little game he loves to play with his stubborn boyfriend in full swing now.

"Hmph," is Sherlock's reply, not moving a millimeter from where he's furiously frozen at his desk.

"Love," John tries again, leaning down to press his lips to the crown of Sherlock's head before murmuring softly in his ear, careful not to touch any other part of him, unwilling to break the spell just yet. "Why don't you want to go dancing with me?"

The derisive snort Sherlock is clearly going for falls flat as he leans into John's touch, John's lips brush against Sherlock's ear. "What people do at clubs is not dancing."

His argument is weak and sounds even weaker as he delivers it breathlessly and John just can't help himself. "Hm, maybe you're right. It's less about dancing and more about…" He lets his words trail off before exhaling a breath closer to a moan than anything else, sighing out, "… _grinding_ ," punctuated with a damp kiss to his lover's cheek before straightening back up. "Wouldn't you say?"

Breathing out a shaky breath of his own, Sherlock's gaze is darker now as he looks up at John from beneath his lashes. "I wouldn't know," he murmurs, looking a bit dazed. "I've never been."

"And you're against new things, are you?" John smiles, trailing a finger along a sharp jawline.

"No," Sherlock replies softly, leaning in to the touch. "I just don't want to go to a club."

"Why not, love?"

"Because I-..." Sherlock hesitates, gaze shifting down to the floor in that way he does when he's unsure, the way he's done every time they do something new, something different, something he has no data on.

Something he can't predict the outcome of before they even step foot out the front door of their building.

"Because..." John prompts gently, silently offering comfort to help him continue, wishing so much that Sherlock would trust himself.

"Because I've never been," Sherlock snips, turning away again and back to his microscope, his safe space, glaring at the top of his desk not even bothering with the pretense of observing slides. "I don't know what to expect and I'm not interested in finding out. As far as I've read and videos I've seen, clubs are loud and obnoxious and I prefer to stay home. Is that enough reasons for you?"

Not deterred a bit by his partner's sulky attitude, John drags his fingers through soft ringlets in a soothing caress. "Sherlock," he croons quietly, doing his best not to laugh affectionately. "Do you not know how to dance?"

Swiveling around so quickly in his chair John actually takes a step back, Sherlock levels him with an incredulous outraged glare. "Excuse me?" he demands with fierce blue eyes, straightening his spine arrogantly, tugging his warn t-shirt down at the hem, furious and self-important all in one go. "I _do_ know how to dance, thank you very much. My mother taught me."

"So it's just that it's new?" John tries again, filing away that precious information to examine at a later date, instead thinking slowly through everything Sherlock has said, piecing things together again. "You don't know what to expect?"

Holding his gaze for a long moment, irises shifting to a clear crystal, Sherlock hesitates before nodding once succinctly, a tick of a brow challenging John to respond in any other way besides correctly.

Which John accepts, another wave of warmth washing through his chest for the boy in front of him. "Oh, love," he murmurs, eyes going soft, brimming with affection.

"Don't pity me," Sherlock spits irritably before huffing. "I'm not some fragile thing. I'm just saying that it's one thing to go to Mike's and drink a beer and play a game and a whole other thing to go out to a new location with additional people and surroundings. It's different. It'll be different."

It's starting to sink into place and John has to keep himself from going to his boyfriend, from wrapping him up in all his love and never letting him go, from, as Sherlock will see it, _pitying_ him. "You've got nothing to worry about," he tries calmly, taking a test step closer. "We can do exactly what we do at Mike's and keep everything simple."

"But that's the _point_ , John," Sherlock snaps back. "It won't _be_ simple. There are other variables, other people involved, _strangers_ no less. How can you possibly expect something similar to a house party full of people you already know when that was a fluke all in itself anyway for _me_ to be ac-"

The sentence snaps off with a clicked jaw as Sherlock slams his mouth closed, gaze wide and panicked as he stares back at John, audibly swallowing, his secret, or what he still believes is a secret, laid bare for his partner to see, his insecurities clear as day, his worries of the night ahead of them spelled out in perfect clarity.

And John loves him so fucking much in this moment he almost says it. Almost drops those three words casually to cover Sherlock's humiliation, almost leaks his own confidential feelings in a rather unromantic manner but _god_ it's getting so much harder to keep in on a daily basis because it's the truth. It's the truth and it makes him _ache_ inside.

He's in love.

John Watson is in love with Sherlock Holmes.

But now is not that time, now is not the moment to express anything of the sort because Sherlock is currently staring at him like a deer caught in headlights clearly debating whether he or John will be the first to flee as his sharp gaze darts toward the door and back to John, toes perched on the floor ready to push off at any sign of that last confession coming back around to bite him, prepped and ready to sprint at any sign of trouble.

And all John can do in this moment is simply smile back, keeping himself from speaking words he knows neither of them are ready to hear, which only earns him a wary stare, which truthfully is probably fair given the circumstances, but in this moment he can't bring himself to do much else because he knows exactly what's going on here. He can see it perfectly.

He'd been hoping they were over this by now. Hoping against hope that Sherlock understood now, could see clearly what was going on between them, could comprehend exactly what he meant to John Watson, but apparently that's not happened yet and while it threatens to break John's heart just a bit that this perfect boy still does not understand his worth, it also makes one thing perfectly obvious.

John is going to have to show him. Every minute of every day, John is going to need to prove to Sherlock exactly how important he is.

Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, John takes a deep breath and steps forward, gathering Sherlock around the shoulders where the boy is still seated at his desk and pulls him into his chest, counting it as a win when Sherlock folds forward and buries his face into John's bare skin, cool hands finding their way to John's lower back and resting there, holding on fiercely.

"Sherlock," John whispers, tenderly carding fingers through fringe, choosing his next words very carefully. "No matter where we go. No matter who we meet. No matter what happens. I am still going to want this. I am still going to want you."

"You can't promise something like that, John," Sherlock murmurs, words muffled against John's chest though he doesn't move. "You can't… You don't know."

"I do know," John argues gently. "And I can promise."

Sherlock huffs, fingers now curving around John's waist, brushing thumbs along the edges of his boxer shorts. "You haven't seen what it's really like. The rugby lads-"

"Adore you," John interrupts quietly, fastening his hold a little firmer.

"-were a fluke," Sherlock repeats his earlier sentiment. "That has no bearing on what others may do. Or say. It's not what people usual do when they meet me." He takes a breath and somehow sinks further against John. "You don't know what it was like," he murmurs. "Before you. Everything was different."

"And everything in my life was different before you," John breathes, dropping soft kisses to Sherlock's temple. "And now everything is exponentially better. And nothing anyone else does or says will change that. Trust me."

"I do trust you," Sherlock whispers, clinging a little harder.

"I know," John agrees. "And now I want you to trust yourself. Because I trust you and I think you're wonderful. And there is nothing you can do or say that will change my mind about that."

"Would you like to test that theory?" Sherlock snips, though he's much softer and quieter now, less rigid and worried and John takes it as a good sign.

"Yes. And I think tonight it the perfect test."

Pulling back on a sigh, Sherlock blinks up at him in resignation, sighing out the last of his refusal and leveling John with a serious stare. "Fine," he acquiesces, raising a brow. "But if it's awful-"

"We'll leave," John agrees readily. "But for now, how about we both find something to wear? The boys will be here in an hour."

Wavering for only a moment more, Sherlock finally stands, rolling his eyes when he catches John grinning smugly at him, grabbing his shower kit and disappearing through the door.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The club is about as hot and loud as John remembers the last time he'd been somewhere like this. Multi-color lights flash along the walls and the ceiling, painting the large crowd of moving bodies with greens and pinks and purples, bass pulsing from the speakers mounted along the walls a rhythmic beat the sea of people moves against like a wave.

In other words, it's exactly as expected.

What's not expected, however, is that it isn't the most interesting thing going on in this room. And definitely not the most attractive.

As per usual, Sherlock Holmes has cleaned up rather well.

Grinning up at the boy beside him, John can't help another once over of that gorgeous bloke dressed sharply in a deep plum button down and black fitted jeans beside him, the boy who John literally watched get dressed in that outfit and yet somehow it still gets his blood pumping faster in his veins, his heart kicking up a pace as he clutches those long fingers belonging to that boy, feeling a bit smug about the fact that this boy here, this boy is here with John, this fucking beautiful boy _belongs_ to John. He cannot take his eyes off his lover, cannot stop focusing on long fingers intertwined with his, cannot believe this beautiful creature is his, tumbling curls falling around his face so eloquently, sharp eyes glinting in the flashing light as they look out amongst the crowd.

No, not looking.

Watching. Observing.

Deducing.

Quicksilver irises scan the mess of movement carefully, information glittering with every burst of color dancing across them, brilliance racing through that big beautiful brain at the speed of light, and it is a joy to watch.

"Hey," John smiles up at his partner, nudging an elbow against Sherlock's arm and startling him out of his focus. "Alright?"

Precious locks shake gently as the genius boy nods. "This place is interesting."

"Wow," John rocks back on his heels. "We've been here two minutes and already it gets an _interesting_? We may be in for a good night yet."

Pale cheeks go a bit pink. "Yes, well on occasion the places you take me are interesting," Sherlock feigns annoyance, gaze slanting sideways to give John a long look. "Don't hold your breath that this will always be the case."

Grinning like the besotted fool that he is, John gives those delicate fingers a squeeze. "Wouldn't dare, love."

"This place is _awesome_ ," Mike crows behind them where he stands with Greg and Paul, gawking at the swarm before them before smacking a hand to John's back. "Let's get drinks!"

"Martini, please." Irene is suddenly beside Sherlock, curling an arm into his and tugging him away with a smirk, cutting John's protest off before it leaves his mouth, though he manages to keep hold of Sherlock's hand. "Make it two for me and my handsome date here."

"Excuse me?" John demands, about to make a move toward yanking Sherlock right back to his side thank you very much. Tonight is their night, Sherlock is _John's_ handsome date, and besides he'd promised Sherlock-

"Oh calm down," Irene rolls her eyes as she watches John bristle. "I'm not going to steal him." She gives Sherlock a once over. "Not after one martini, anyway. It'll take more than that, won't it, love?"

"Stop it," Sherlock snips in return though there isn't much heat behind it, eyes twinkling with the understanding of a joke.

"You love it when I'm wicked," Irene lobs back, grinning at him, silently sharing in the humor.

"Wicked is a kind term for insane," Sherlock raises a brow before snickering along with Irene who is still clutching a slender arm, still dazzling a gaze up at Sherlock Holmes.

Well isn't that just _lovely_.

God dammit.

God fucking _dammit_.

It's stupid, John knows it's stupid, not only stupid but bloody _irrational_ to feel any type of way about this situation going on in front of him considering these are two gay people of the opposite sex, one of which fucking belongs to John Watson, heart, body and soul, and yet that beast that's laid dormant for so long resting peacefully in its cage begins to stir from its deep slumber, stretching and scratching and stumbling awake, hardly assessing the situation before releasing a growl, snarling at the metal bars and pacing, prepped and ready to turn green and ugly and angry, eager to burst through the confines of its cage and unleash hell.

It takes a genuine effort on John's part not to let the thing loose, determinedly ignoring the prickling along his skin, the fire simmering in his blood.

Because Irene is just… perfect, isn't she? Standing at Sherlock's side, all perfect angles and curves, complexion the perfect mix of light and dark much like the genius himself, beautiful and brilliant with some sort of mysterious aura surrounding her every move, an almost identical match to Sherlock Holmes.

It makes John fucking _furious_.

Which he knows is completely absurd. He knows that. The rational side of him _knows that_.

And yet, the other side, the irrational, jealous brute side does not seem to grasp that and just as those thick nails scrape against the ground ferociously, the actual hand in John's squeezes and the body beside his turns curling into his side, Sherlock's forehead pressing to John's temple as soft tuffs of laughter whisper in his ear, and just like that the monster in his chest huffs and lays back down with a sigh, not quite content but appeased enough to keep quiet, instead allowing John to bask in the warmth that's spread from every point of contact he's currently sharing with his love.

"You two are ridiculous," John tries to jab while dropping a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, taking a small satisfaction in the fact that this beautiful boy is pressed to his side and not Irene's, which is _stupid_ , god he knows it is but it does nothing to hinder the flush of pleasure along the back of his neck.

"No _she's_ ridiculous," Sherlock argues, still smiling against John's cheek. It's such a simple gesture, such a regular touch they share and yet John couldn't be more thankful for Sherlock including him in this exchange and allowing him a moment to take a deep breath and relax, quelling the unreasonably bitter acid in his chest.

He has absolutely nothing to worry about. Irene, while stunning, is not a threat to his relationship. No one is. Not with the undeniably strong connection they share.

Besides, now is not the time to show Sherlock just exactly how jealous of a boyfriend John is. John isn't even sure he really understands it quite yet, more frightened of it than anything, more concerned about the possession he feels over this genius he lives with, the need to be at his side all the time, the ache to hold him and feel him and claim him, it's a feeling John has never in his life experienced, not until the first day of university, not until alcohol and Victor Trevor and Irene Adler.

Not until Sherlock bloody Holmes.

So for now, he'll keep his cool, reign it in, let it goddamn go because the last thing he wants is to ruin a perfectly nice evening out with his sexy boyfriend and best mates over something as petty as an attractive person talk to his partner.

"And you two are disgustingly cute," Irene rolls her eyes in mock annoyance before tugging at Sherlock again. "Come along. Buy a girl a drink."

With a heavy put-upon sigh, Sherlock concedes and John lets go of his hand willingly, calmer now that he's had a moment to stake his claim once more, ignoring the low internal growl from the beast he cannot tame and instead forcing the side of himself he can control to be comfortable.

"We'll go with you," Mike volunteers happily, nodding a head toward Paul who steps up readily and glances back to John and Greg.

"What're we drinking?"

"A round of beers would be lovely," John smiles tightly, ignoring the blood red fingernails standing out starkly against Sherlock's beautiful porcelain skin, sucking in a silent breath and blowing it out slowly. "Thank you," he says through clenched teeth, patently refusing to give into to his baser instincts and grab Sherlock back to him.

"Sure thing," Paul grins and to John's great relief, grabs Irene's hand towing her toward the bar and away from Sherlock. "Let's not lose each other in this crowd, yeah?"

"Buddy system!" Mike agrees, hooking an arm in Sherlock's. "Can't have my teammate go missing as a club. I need you next weekend, mate!"

Laughing, Sherlock let's himself be pulled along and thankfully gives John a second to catch his breath which has become much easier without having to witness Irene's hands all over his boyfriend. It's all fine. All of it.

And just as he's turning back to grab Greg and go find somewhere to sit green eyes catch his, going a bit bluer and a bit wider for a fraction of a second, just long enough for John to take notice and concern fill his chest, only just seeing the worry crease Sherlock's eyes around the edges before the boy is attempting to change his features into something else, something indifferent and cool, something not painstakingly obvious.

John, however, is not fooled.

"I'll see you in a bit, alright?" John says softly, letting a slow smile creep along his features, nodding his head toward the dance floor and waggling his brows. "I do owe you a dance lesson, after all."

It's the teasing that seems to settle the tension in the genius boy's shoulders, emotionless features giving way to a slacked jaw and an affectionate eye roll as Sherlock turns to follow Mike's tugging. "No lessons required, John Watson," he calls over his shoulder before turning fully and dropping a wink at his boyfriend. "I believe it is _you_ who will be the student this evening."

"Tart," John mouths back with a smirk, earning him a giggle from that gorgeous boy before Sherlock is nodding back at him in silent understanding and disappearing into the crowd along with the others.

Another tense muscle loosens in John's neck, a pool of heat flooding his insides, never enjoying anything more than teasing and flirting with Sherlock Holmes.

"Let's grab a table," Greg appears at his side and claps him on the back.

John nods, still stealing glances to his lover making his way through the crowd as he follows behind Greg, narrowly missing running into his teammate several times, his pulse racing for a whole different reason now, his body suddenly buzzing with what's to come this evening, giddy at the idea of getting Holmes the younger out on the dance floor and showing him exactly what is done in the club.

They find a seat and slide into chairs just beyond the crowd, John craning to see over the sea of people, appreciating that at least Irene found a good place to come to this evening that's between a lounge and a club, attempting to keep eyes on Sherlock at the bar like the lunatic that he is, unable to keep his gaze off his boyfriend for longer than a second, already making plans to wind him up all evening long until he can get that boy back to their room when his thoughts are cut off.

"So," Greg prompts and John whips back around to look at him, a bit irritated with being interrupted in his scheming. "Are you going to nip that straight away?"

John frowns impatiently, having no time at all for cryptic discussions with his captain while his boyfriend's gorgeous arse is currently too far away to grab. "Nip what?"

It comes out sharper than he'd intended but Greg simply smiles in understanding if a bit sadly. "That," he replies by way of explanation, flinging a hand toward where the crowd has parted just enough for them to see through where Sherlock is leaned against the bar beside Irene who is half bent over the top seemingly flirting with the barmaid if her body language is anything to go by. "I saw that awful look you got before he went off with the boys and Irene. You've got to take care of that before it gets out of hand, mate."

Blinking for a long moment, John stares back at his friend, still feeling a bit off balance from earlier, the nerves beneath his skin still a bit raw from the internal emotional rollercoaster he was just on and now Greg is looking at him like he…. like he knows something John is positive he never shared and isn't sure he should share now.

"I… am not sure what we're talking about here," John replies warily, feeling uneasy about discussing any personal or private topic regarding his partner.

Scrubbing a hand quickly down his face as if preparing for something serious, Greg shrugs. "I call it the Gallows look," he begins, nodding toward the bar again in reference to Sherlock. "Mycroft had that exact same look half a dozen times the first two months we dated before I realized what it was."

"The... what?" John asks dumbly.

Greg laces his fingers together between his knees, elbows resting on his thighs as he sighs pensively. "The Holmes brothers are absolutely brilliant," he starts and John thinks he's catching up to a conversation they've had once before, until Greg shakes his head. "And yet somehow, they are both incredibly, endearingly stupid."

A burst of laughter falls from John's lips and he grins at his teammate, finally landing on the same page, realizing exactly what they're talking about and exactly how much they have in common. "My god, you're telling me," John agrees with a shake of his head. "What is it with them?"

Chuckling along as well, Greg tosses his hands up in the air. "It's honestly a mystery," he rolls his eyes fondly. "The first time I asked Mycroft out on a date, I thought I'd read every moment wrong we'd ever had, that he wasn't actually interested in me at all the way his features shuddered. It was the most painfully heart-stopping moment I'd ever experienced. I was so disappointed I hardly heard him say yes."

His smile is rueful and John waits.

"I'm pretty sure he had that look after we'd made an official plan but I wasn't paying attention I was so ecstatic. But when I went to pick him up and he opened the door... Christ. It was awful, John."

"I can imagine," John breathes, certain Greg can't hear him over the music but it doesn't much matter as his captain continues.

"It wasn't until a couple weeks later I realized what it was. The Gallows look." Greg huffs. "A man resigned to his fate. Like the minute we do whatever I suggest is the minute I'm gonna realize this has all been a big mistake. That I'll realize he isn't what I want. That he isn't, as he so sadly puts it, worth it."

John's heart physically aches in his chest. The Gallows look. Well isn't that perfectly fitting?

"You see, Mycroft, and I'm sure now that I've seen that exact look on that boy over there, Sherlock, believe they are not normal." Greg drops his head sadly. "They don't think they deserve to be loved. And they're convinced at every juncture of their relationships, we're gonna realize that. We'll figure out they aren't normal, and we'll leave."

"That's..." John starts and stops, unsure how to finish. That's... exactly it? That's... completely heartbreaking that anyone could feel that way? That's... the furthest thing from the truth? "... horrible."

"It really is," Greg nods. "But eventually, they figure it out. Well, Mycroft did anyway." The sad smile is gone and a pleased little grin replaces it. "That man, I swear. It took some convincing but repetition helps." Greg smirks cheekily. "And lots of sex."

John sputters a surprised laugh. "Jesus, mate."

"Hey I'm giving you the keys to make it right," Greg throws his palms up defensively as he laughs. "Don't mock it."

"Oh my god," John chuckles fondly at his ridiculous friend, though he must admit he's incredibly on point, an uncomfortable churning sensation filling John's lower belly.

It's not like it's new information but John has never thought about it in such blunt terms. Such clear statements like Greg said. He's never put words to it before.

Sherlock thinks John is going to leave.

At any given moment, at anything that pops up unexpectedly, any new experience John suggests, Sherlock tends to pale and attempt to exclude himself. The parties, lunches, games, all of it Sherlock has been less than excited to participate, trying not to have to attend, attempting to find excuses, fighting before finally giving in every time and then throwing worried glances at John up until he's comfortable in the setting and everything else falls away.

Oh god, the realization _hurts_.

He truly thinks that, Sherlock Holmes really and truly believes he's somehow fooled John for this long, tricked him into believing he is someone else, someone he thinks John wants, someone John could like.

Oh god.

Pressing a hand to his chest in a weak attempt to keep his heart from shattering, John takes a deep breath, swallowing around the painful realization, gaze trained on the floor as he takes it all in, lets himself feel the anger, the horror and the hurt for the simple fact that that boy… that unbelievably drop dead gorgeous, bright, absolutely fantastic bloke doesn't _know_ …. Doesn't _realize_ ….

Jesus Christ.

Sherlock Holmes is an absolute idiot.

An idiot John is completely _besotted_ with. Wholly and utterly, completely and fully, unequivocally and unabashedly, John is in love with Sherlock.

No tricks. No illusions. No mistaken ideas.

John is absolutely gone on that silly boy who might be clever but not as clever as he thinks he is considering he honestly believes he fooled John into falling in love with him.

And Sherlock calls _John_ an idiot.

"I'm working on making it right," John replies to Greg's unspoken question finally, his captain gracious enough to give John a moment to collect himself. "I hate that he feels that way. It's so far from the truth."

"I know," Greg nods in commiseration. "But you seem to be doing alright."

"We're great until something new happens," John agrees with a sigh. "Then we're back to square one."

"It'll pass," Greg assures him. "Eventually, he'll be comfortable enough with his own feelings and yours that it won't cross his mind to be worried."

"Yeah." John glances over again to clock Sherlock still at the bar and Christ, even the back of his head is goddamn beautiful, all falling curls standing starkly against porcelain skin, strong shoulders curved inward as he leans on his elbows against the wood, long back giving way to that deliciously round arse looking particularly firm and perfect in those sinfully tight jeans. God, Sherlock is so lovely, and so brilliant and so damn stupid sometimes. That perfect boy should know that. Know that he is perfect. Know that he is loved.

"Give it time," Greg says, pulling John's attention back to him. "He'll come around."

"Thanks," John nods with a sad smile. "I think I needed to hear it point blank like that."

"Anytime, Johnny," Greg shrugs, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. "I'm happy to kick your arse into reality whenever you like."

"Fuck off," John laughs just in time to see Mike and Paul scooting into the booth, Sherlock close behind.

"Here we are then," Mike cheers, sliding several damp pints along the table.

"Well hello," John grins as Sherlock drops into the seat at his side, dropping a hand to Sherlock's knee. "How was the bar?"

"Crowded," Sherlock shrugs, taking a sip of his beer. "And loud. And we lost Irene along the way." He nods out to where Irene is sandwiched between two blonde women on the dance floor.

John laughs as his partner settles a little closer, pressing thigh against thigh, snuggling into John's side. "Par for the course at a club, I suppose."

"I wanna dance, too," Mike announces, glancing expectantly at each person surrounding the table.

"So go dance then," Greg raises a brow at his teammate.

Mike huffs. "I can't go _alone_. Someone has to go with me." His eyes land on Sherlock, mouth already twitching into a smile.

"Absolutely not," John cuts that thought off before it can be voiced, fingers clutching Sherlock's knee a little tighter. "I'm taking him out on the dance floor myself, thank you very much."

"What! Come on!" Mike gripes. "That's so unfair. We're Pong partners!"

"And we're _actual_ partners. " John rolls his eyes fondly. "You don't get to steal him tonight."

Sherlock's sharp gaze dances back and forth between them with a frown. "Well, I can dance with both-"

"Hush," John squeezes his thigh where he knows the genius is ticklish and chuckles as Sherlock bites back a shriek of indignation. "You are not going."

"John," Sherlock tries to glare around the giggles falling from his lips, pushing at John's hand still clamped around his leg. "I don't think-"

"Hey." John loosens his grip and instead grabs hold of Sherlock's hand, leaning in menacingly, pressing his lips to Sherlock's ear. "Remember what I said about… _grinding_?"

Squirming a little in his seat, Sherlock nods, leaning closer to John's touch. "What? I won't be doing that with- "Sherlock freezes before pulling back to frown at John. "You think I'd do that with _Mike_?"

Resisting the urge to laugh, John shakes his head and smirks. "No. But I'm certainly not giving you up for anyone tonight, baby." He can feel his gaze go dark as he offers a heated gaze at his lover. "Tonight, you are mine."

Mouth parting on an inaudible gasp, Sherlock's pupils dilate, gaze dropping to John's lips without hesitation. "I'm always yours," he murmurs.

John grins. "Don't you forget it either."

Damn, tonight is going to be fun.

Mike makes a sound like a whine to the general center of the table. "Come _on_. Greg?"

Their captain raises the bottle he's currently nursing with a shrug. "Sorry mate, I'm good with my beer here."

Mike groans and stares pleadingly at his last hope, eyes wide and round and as sad as humanly possible. "Paul? Come on, please?"

"Uh-," Paul looks at Greg briefly before shrugging. "Sure."

"Yes!" Mike cheers, grabbing his hand. "Let's go!"

"Woah-" Paul barely has time to blink before his teammate is dragging him out onto the dance floor, leaving the remainder of the group laughing at the booth.

"He is a ridiculous human being," John chuckles, shaking his head as they watch Paul stumble after Mike. He glances back to see Sherlock and Greg sharing a long look.

"Do you think he knows?" Sherlock asks him with a smirk.

"Nope," Greg replies with a shrug. "That boy has no idea."

"No idea about what?" John frowns but neither boy look at him.

"Poor bloke," Greg sighs.

"Should we tell him?" Sherlock frowns out at their two friends disappearing into the crowd.

"No," Greg chuckles. "Let's let him sort it out."

"Who?" John asks indignantly.

His captain shoots him an incredulous look. "You really don't know?"

"Know what?" John forces out between clenched teeth.

"Seriously?" Sherlock is looking at him now. "You don't know?"

John huffs in frustration. "Will one of you just tell me already?"

Exchanging another look, both Greg and Sherlock smirk before Sherlock shrugs at him. "No," he says casually and goes to stand. "You wanna go dance?"

Glaring at his boyfriend and his outstretched hand, John crosses his arms. "Are you serious?"

"He is," Greg nods. "Go dance."

"Come on, _Mister_ Watson," Sherlock says, laughing when John gives him a quizzical look. "What? Didn't you say you'd be teaching me tonight?"

"Oh my god," John sighs, though he's unable to resist the palm wiggling its fingers at him. "Fine. But this isn't over."

"Yes it is!" Greg calls as Sherlock pulls him to the floor. "For now anyway!"

"Since when do you and Greg keep secrets together?" John gripes loudly over the beat thrumming in his ears. The bass feels like it's reaching into his chest and thumping until his blood pumps in time with the rhythm and he smiles, hips moving side to side as he follows Sherlock out onto the dance floor, letting the crowd and the music and the night envelope them both, breathing a sigh of relief that finally, finally Sherlock all his properly, only the two of them.

The two of them against the rest of the world.

"If you used your eyes properly, you'd be in on our secret," Sherlock smirks, continuing to make his way through the throng of people, though John is hardly listening anymore, losing interest in whatever Greg and Sherlock have going on between them and instead focusing on what's directly in front of him, the song blaring from the speakers fading into something with a subtler bass and suddenly he needs to get his hands on that boy ahead of him.

He tugs on those long fingers and Sherlock comes to him willingly, crowding into John until they're practically sealed together, pressed knee to chest, foreheads pushing together as the moving bodies around them practically fade away, the world seeming to narrow down to just the two of them. Pink lips part at eye level and John smirks before reaching up to kiss away the surprise, rolling his hips to meet the subtle bulge at the front of Sherlock's jeans, curling fingers into belt loops and pulling his lover as close as possible. He feels more than hears the hitch in Sherlock's breath, chest stuttering against John's, an aborted breath ghosting across John's lips before long arms are wrapping around his shoulders and a dangerous grin is tipping the genius boy's lips, slender frame beginning to move slowly to the bass line, hips turning this way and that.

John's hands find their way to Sherlock's lower back and press him even closer, fingers feeling hot where they stroke soft shirt threads attempting to sink his touch into Sherlock's skin, riding the delicate movements of that graceful form, following along, chasing after every move, rotating together as one.

Sherlock shivers in his grasp, dragging his hands down John's back to gather him closer by the hips and John responds gliding his flat palms up Sherlock's chest, tenderly dipping fingertips into muscle, kneading hard planes and soft sections, feeling his lover all over. _Christ,_ this genius boy is so beautifully lean, all sharp angry edges until John lays hands on him and the blond boy swears Sherlock melts under his touch, etched marble giving way to softening skin, hard lines blurring to smooth curves, body giving to John's hands like it was made to, and good _god_ it's making John's head spin.

He slides a hand into Sherlock's curls and rolls his smaller body all along that expansive frame, touching chest and pecs, stomach and hips, lingering along the hardness between Sherlock's legs with his own and grinning as the boy's eyes flutter before thighs meet and then knees and then they're flush against each other again, John reveling in the squeeze at his hips and the gasping in his ear as Sherlock struggles for breath, pulling John tight to him.

"I thought you said you could dance," John murmurs in his ear, clocking the redness racing up Sherlock's neck to his cheeks as John rolls against him once more.

"This is not dancing," Sherlock argues, countering his own point as he tips his hips in time with the music, following John's gyration fluidly, the movement like a shock to John's internal system, sparking something low in his belly and shattering at the base of his spine. "This is something else."

"Really," John challenges, stepping just out of reach until all he can clutch is Sherlock's outstretched hand and he spins him in place, draping his arm over Sherlock's shoulder and pressing his front to his partner's back, heatedly breathing against the base of the genius boy's skull and dropping a wet lingering kiss to his skin, firing lighting heatedly beneath his skin. "Still not dancing?" he teases, settling his hand to Sherlock's hip and swaying them slowly to the bass in the background, fingers lacing with Sherlock's against the genius boy's chest, settling his hips to rest steadily against the curve of Sherlock's plush arse, the beat vibrating between them until it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

By way of responding, Sherlock doesn't, instead dipping lower and dropping his head back to John's shoulder, lips parting to the sky, eyes closed as John grinds against him carefully dragging their bodies together again and again. It should be strange with their height difference but it works somehow, Sherlock's long body folding down to meet John's, moving with him, heat radiating off of him through his clothes. John wants to touch that hot skin beneath those perfectly fitted threads, put his mouth there and suck, scorch his lips and taste the sweat. It's intoxicating, this beautiful boy curled against him, letting John have his way, following his lead and reveling in it, drowning in the rhythm together, every touch sensual in a way John's never experienced before, every caress carrying a heat bolder than the one before, every point their forms meet at sizzling with desire.

Christ, John already wants to take him home. It's only been a short while and already he's aching to get Sherlock naked and writhing, wet and wanting, _god_ he wants him so badly, already practically fucking him on the dance floor for the whole world to see, Jesus he does not care, senses blinded with pure need running bone deep, craving the unspoken things promised in the language of their movements. Flashes of that night in the hotel burst free in his mind's eye and he presses his mouth to the hot skin below Sherlock's ear to stifle his moan, the image of the genius boy between his thighs sucking him off something John will never ever forget, all wet heat and long strokes, dark blue eyes staring up at him like they worshipped him, damp skin melting against his own. Fucking _hell_ , he wants to return the favor right the fuck now. He wants to lick and kiss and bite and fuck this gorgeous boy in his arms and it's driving him absolutely _crazy_. He can't keep his hands still, untangling his fingers and pushing his hands down the genius boy's fit stomach to his solid thighs, bracketing Sherlock's cock between palms and resisting the overwhelming urge to touch and rub and feel, panting against the damp skin along Sherlock's neck, moaning low in his throat.

"John," he only barely hears over the music before long fingers are covering his, gripping his hands and holding them in place as John's hips rock again, moving his backside to meet John's every push.

"Fucking hell," John groans, consumed with the gorgeous body against his, touching like he's never touched before, groping and grinding like mad, _yes_ it feels so delightfully naughty, dirty dancing in a crowd of strangers like the best kind of wrong and John licks at the bead of sweat trickling down Sherlock's spine, his tongue finding its way into Sherlock's ear.

"You like that?" John breathes, his aching cock pushing against Sherlock's plump arse, moving in time with the drums humming from the speakers. "You like it like this?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies dazedly, grinding back against John with everything he has, curls becoming damp and sticking to his forehead as he pants upward, holding onto John's fingers tighter. "Yes, I like it."

_Oh_.

Well that's new, isn't it?

The agreement. The boldness in reply to John's gentle prodding. It's not been long, hardly over a week since the hotel when John let his jaw go loose and his filthy words slip out and Sherlock had blushed and moaned and come all over them both, and yet most of their love making before and since has been soft and quiet and tender, all fingertips and gentle kisses and murmured affection, and that's fine, god that's bloody brilliant in John's book, something he never ever wants to give because good god is he madly in love with this boy, but this? This new side? This _dirty_ side? It's making John's blood pump a little harder in his veins, heighten his senses a little more, make his mouth water with so much potential, so many delicious fantasies running through his mind as his prick rubs against those tightly fitted jeans wrapped around his gorgeous lover, makes him ache in places he didn't know he had.

And if Sherlock is up for it, oh Christ John is really in for it.

So he pushes a bit more.

"You look so good," John growls low in his throat. "So fucking good. You're perfect arse, Jesus I could write poems about it."

Sherlock tosses his head back again as he moans, gripping John's hands like a lifeline. He doesn't respond verbally, only backs himself up harder, riding against John's movements like some professional clubber and John has to grit his teeth to keep from coming right there in his jeans.

"Baby," he moans under his breath. "Oh Sherlock, yes, god you're good at this. I knew you would be. All long legs and lean torso, you're so fucking sexy." He smacks a hand lightly against Sherlock's arse. "God yes, push that back against me, come on."

"Yes," Sherlock groans, turning his head and John catches his lips in a searing kiss.

That gorgeous fucking mouth, Christ. One day, good god one day John is going to ask Sherlock to talk dirty. He's going to make him spell out exactly what he wants, to say the filthiest things he's ever imagined, to form naughty words with that sinful mouth of his, John is going to make that boy _beg_ for it.

"Okay," John murmurs breathlessly, nipping at Sherlock's lower lip and catching himself from literally tearing a button open on his lover's shirt, exhaling sharply. "I- Christ… Love, if we don't slow down I'm going to have you naked right here on this dance floor."

"Then let's go," Sherlock moans into his mouth, refusing to loosen his grip on John's fingers. "Take me home, John."

"Fuck," John bites out, thrusting against Sherlock's arse. "Oh baby… not yet. N-Not… Our friends will never let us live it down if we leave now."

"How about more drinks?" Sherlock grins, finally letting go and turning in John's arms, all red-lipped and pink-cheeked, curls damp and wild, shirt rumpled perfectly, already looking completely gloriously debauched. "One more round, one more song and then we leave?" He bites his bottom lip and renders John completely powerless.

"Fuck yes," John replies, watching his lover laugh and sashay away through the crowd and over to the bar for a long moment before having the wherewithal to follow, his head in a completely different place. He blinks several times before finally finding his footing, no longer zeroed in on his aching cock and moves to follow his boyfriend.

"Hey, are you guys leaving?" Greg appears in front of him, shouting over the music and John shakes his head.

"Grabbing another round. You want anything?"

"Nah, I think I'm gonna bail," Greg shrugs, holding up his phone. "Mycroft got back early so I'm going to go meet him." He grins and spins his finger in the air. "Not really his type of place, you know?"

Considering he was fantasizing about fucking Mycroft's baby brother in said place, John readily agrees. "Alright mate. Have a good night."

"You too!" Greg calls as he pushes his way through the crowd. "Tell the others I left!"

John nods, although he'd prefer not to make any promises considering he doesn't even know where the others are at the moment. He pulls his phone free and sends a quick text to the remaining three about Greg leaving and his and Sherlock's plans for one more song before tucking it away and moving to go to the bar.

And just as John is pushing through the crowd, preparing to go right over there and press himself to Sherlock and lay a kiss to the back of his neck and whisper naughtily in his ear while they wait for their drinks, something else is pressing to his boyfriend and the sea of people dips in front of John, his view obstructed long enough for to-

Wait.

Not something.

Some _one_.

Someone's hand is pressing to Sherlock's lower back. Right where John's was not minutes earlier. Right in that little curve between the dimples John's fingers have dipped into on countless occasions, someone else's dirty grimy hand is settling in like they bloody own that spot on Sherlock Holmes and John's internal beast roars.

The man currently curling his body around Sherlock like some poisonous snake, is big. A bit taller and much broader than Sherlock himself, dark hair pushed up and gelled within an inch of its life, John can only see a side profile but even from here he can tell the guy is a complete wanker. He dips in closer which is when Sherlock appears to register someone beside him and side-steps away with a scathing look though the bloke is undeterred, following the move, hand still at the base of Sherlock's spine and moving lower to swell of his arse and sturdy earth beneath John's feet shakes as he barrels forward, red fraying his vision at the edges as he watches some stranger hit on his boyfriend.

Fuck no.

No this is not on.

He's shoving his way through the crowd, the animal within him now longer behind bars but free and out and ready, howling with rage as John storms forward, sweat beading along his brow as he pushes through damp bodies, growling in frustration with every obstacle, eyes still pinned to the bloke harassing his Sherlock, his world narrowing down to two people who should not be anywhere near one another.

"Move," John barks at a particularly firm man seemingly planted to the floor, hardly moving at all as John tries to brush past.

"Oh, my apologies, John," the man replies and John rolls his eyes in frustration before pausing to look up just as the body finally decides to slink off.

His jealousy is clouding his thoughts and his mind is a mess and yet still, he is positive he's watching Victor Trevor lurk away with a crude smirk on his face, blinking innocently at John before turning into the crowd, ominously disappearing as quickly as he'd come.

And John is almost sure he didn't just hallucinate that, almost positive that wasn't just his jealousy morphing into the single worst person he's ever met who did almost have his hands on Sherlock in the worst way... but right at this moment he needs to get to Sherlock before he loses his mind.

He turns and bolts back toward his target, finally making it through the crowd and to the bar, finding his boyfriend and… no one else.

"Are you alright?" John demands, breathing harshly.

Sherlock whips to look at him, frowning for a moment before smiling down at his partner. "Oh John, there you are. I'm just waiting for drinks."

"Are you alright?" John repeats, placing a hand to Sherlock's lower back, covering the spot someone else, some vile disgusting human being deigned to touch like they had any right, any right at all to lay hands on this boy who _belongs to John._

"What's the matter?" Sherlock is peering down at him in concern, batting those ridiculously long lashes and stepping closer. "John, what is it?"

"He didn't do anything, did he?" John all but barks, knowing how harsh he sounds and unable to contain it. The beast within roars its approval.

"Who?" Sherlock frowns, brows crinkling in that adorable way John would appreciate at any other given time.

"The man," John snarls, curling arms around Sherlock's waist protectively. "He put his hand on you, I saw it."

"Oh," Sherlock breathes, gorgeous blue eyes tracing along John's features, mapping the creases and dips, tracking along his eyebrows and down to his mouth. "Oh," he whispers again, a small curve of his mouth following the word like…

Like he's enjoying this.

"Oh, John-"

"Are you _alright_?" John snaps again and, to his utter shock, Sherlock grins, blue eyes twinkling with something John can't quite read, wrapping arms around John's shoulders.

"Oh yes," Sherlock croons. "Yes I am."

"He didn't do anything?" John replies a little weaker than before, staring up at what he can only describe as his delighted lover.

"He didn't do anything, John. He tried to give me his number but I declined and he left." Sherlock smirks, dipping down to press his lips to John's ear. "You have nothing to worry about. However, I must admit I do like you like this."

"Like what?" John grouses, though he clutches Sherlock tighter as goose pimples race along his neck under Sherlock's heated breath.

"Jealous," Sherlock all but whispers.

"I'm not jealous," John attempts to argue, the monster in his chest calming down under the soft touches, rationality making a valiant effort to take back over.

"Oh no?" Sherlock murmurs, sliding his hands down John's sides soothingly and closing his teeth around John's earlobe gently. "Are you sure about that?"

It's impossible not to moan though John does try to bite down on it, trying and failing not to feel ridiculous at his own emotional reactions, his tender nerves feeling raw after the ups and downs he's had in one single evening, his libido threatening to take back over as Sherlock runs hands all over him.

"Love," John murmurs, clinging a little harder than necessary and Sherlock, bless him, doesn't say a word about it.

"Yes?" Sherlock replies, dipping the tip of his tongue in John's ear.

"I just don't… I- I don't- _Christ_ , you… I don't like other p-people touching y-you," John stammers out, that wicked mouth of his boyfriend's not helping his focus.

"Me either," Sherlock agrees, curling fingers into John's fringe as he drops damp kisses to his jaw. "But I like it when you touch me. You can always touch me, John."

Oh god, that filthy little mouth, John isn't going to have to teach him a damn thing.

"Always?" John whispers back because two can play that game.

"Always. And you can be jealous too. I don't mind." Sherlock grins against his skin. "It's very…" he swipes his tongue along the edge of John's ear, "…sexy."

"God," John moans softly, thankful for the music pounding loudly, drowning out his inappropriate noises, cursing to the high heavens for bringing Sherlock out at all tonight considering he now desperately _desperately_ needs that boy back in his bed right this fucking minute.

"Ready to take me home now?" Sherlock grins, leaning in for a lingering kiss.

"Yes," John growls, prying his lover's mouth open a little further and delving his tongue in until Sherlock is clutching at him. John pulls back and smirks. "Come on."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They make it to their room but only just.

The door flies open and lands with a bang but neither one of them can be arsed to care, giggling and reaching for the other with clear intent as they burst into their dorm, two raging storms colliding in a swirl of lips and teeth and tongue and hands, panting against each other, fingers battling for purchase, just as desperate and needy as the other, like John and his absurd jealousy never happened, like they'd only just been grinding on the dance floor again, hands all over each other, heat radiating between them.

"Baby," John groans, abandoning his own pursuit of getting Sherlock undressed and instead assisting with his own clothing, tearing his shirt clean over his head and reveling in the immediate touch of his lover's long fingertips snaking up his naked torso with purpose. "Christ."

"Trousers, too," Sherlock growls low in his throat and John can do nothing but obey, popping the button on his jeans open and shimmying out of them, Sherlock's hands following his movements, ensuring his order is followed until John bats his hands away and descends upon the fabric wrapped around his lover's slender figure.

"Now you, you naughty thing," John murmurs as he helps Sherlock out of his button down, sneaking touches to every inch of skin he can reach, his boyfriend's body damp from dancing, wet and writhing under John's touch.

Fuck, the rugby player is desperate to get his mouth on this gorgeous boy. Anywhere will do.

He's only just getting to work on Sherlock's flies when the genius is suddenly pushing his hands away and pressing up against his front, bare skin to bare skin, and pressing a firm palm to the heavy bulge in John's pants, forcing a startled moan out of his mouth without any thought.

"This," Sherlock pants against John's lips, "has been driving me mad all evening."

"Mm," is John's only coherent response, snaking a hand into Sherlock's curls at the back of his head and pulling him in for another scorching kiss, rolling his tongue deep into Sherlock's mouth as the hand on his cock squeezes, Sherlock's deft fingers becoming hazardous dangerously quickly. "Fuck."

Pressing a thumb to a pink nipple, John pinches it between his thumb and forefinger and tugs gently until Sherlock whines, hand stuttering along John's pants as he drops his forehead to John's shoulder, gasping for breath, rolling into John's touch.

"Two can play this game, love," John grins, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's temple and taking the opportunity to spin them around and press him up against the bedroom door. "I believe I owe you."

And then he's dropping to his knees.

Dragging fitted jeans down legs a mile long, John's mouth fills with saliva as soft skin appears with every push and pull of his fingers, muscles twitching and tightening beneath John's gentle touch and he can't help dipping forward and nipping at a meaty thigh, teeth sinking in softly, a pretty pink blushing the paleness away in a sudden burst of color.

"John," Sherlock gasps like the air has been knocked from his body and John glances up to find the most breathtaking sight.

Bright grey eyes are staring down at him, hooded and clouded but bright as ever, wet swollen lips parted and begging to be kissed all over again, cheeks glowing red and round and beautiful, curls twisting up this way and that, Sherlock Holmes is an absolute mess and positively stunning just like this, mostly naked and painfully unfulfilled, fire burning in his irises silently pleading to be touched.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John murmurs up to his lover as innocently as he can manage even as he peels Sherlock's pants off him, careful not to touch the swollen cock tenting the cotton fabric.

The boy above him does an honest to god body roll, hips heaving helplessly off the door and back as he groans, dropping his head back against the wood behind him. "John," he whispers, bottom lip threatening a full-on pout that's hindered by the moan he can't seem to keep at bay as John's breath ghosts against his naked skin. "John, please."

"What baby?" John teases, pressing his lips carefully to Sherlock's protruding hipbone, grinning as he receives a hip thrust in return. "What do you want?"

"I... I can't-" Sherlock murmurs, pelvis shaking forward like he just can't stop himself. " _Please_."

"What is it?" John continues his game, trailing soft fingers up and down Sherlock's thighs, watching muscles quiver beneath his touch and wholly ignoring the aching erection straining toward him. "Tell me."

"I-..." Sherlock tries again, pausing to swallow thickly, steeling himself as he takes a shuddering breath, palms flat against the door as he stares down at John on his knees in front of him. "Please... Lick it."

"Oh yeah?" John whispers, parting his lips just millimeters from the head of Sherlock's cock. "Lick where?"

His movements seem to make his lover bolder somehow, Sherlock's eyes widening slightly before his licks his lips and reaches his fingers down into John's fringe. "Lick my..." he stutters, cradling John's skull in his gloriously big hands, not pushing but holding on, steadying himself for what's next, pupils blown to the brink making his eyes look dark and dangerous and so fucking sexy. "Lick my cock, John. Please."

Biting his lip on a grin, John drops a wink up at his lover and then leans forwards careful to only drag the very tip of his tongue along the sensitive head of Sherlock's dick, tasting salty precome on his lips. He's never done this before but Christ has he thought about it ever since he'd had Sherlock Holmes between his legs sucking him off like some sort of professional cocksucker, he'd been waiting impatiently to try this himself. And good _god_ is it exquisite having this beautiful boy getting off on John tasting his erection, on his knees and everything, and now it makes perfect sense why Sherlock couldn't keep himself from coming the moment John was done.

"Oh god," is the shaky whimpered reply John gets as he swirls his tongue around the velvety head, preening like a bloody peacock as Sherlock's fingers sink deeper into John's hair. "Oh my _god_ , John."

"Is that all, love?" John can't help teasing just a little more, pressing closed mouth kisses along the hard length. "Just licking?"

"Suck it," Sherlock replies without missing a beat, clearly too gone to be embarrassed anymore, boldly asking for what he wants, all but begging for it and John can't help grinning like a fool in the crease of Sherlock's thigh, nosing at the soft skin until his lover keens helplessly before he pulls back and glances up. "Please, John, _fuck_ , suck me off."

"Listen to you," John teases, stroking a hand up and down Sherlock's cock lazily, touch too light to do much more than make the genius boy squirm. "Such a dirty little mouth. Say it again."

"Please," Sherlock begs, blinking hazily down, hips twitching with the effort not to thrust. "Suck me off."

It's utterly gorgeous watching the display in front of him and above him and all around him, watching his lover squirming frantically for more.

And, honestly, how can John resist giving in to that?

He gives another soft little kitten lick before wrapping his lips firmly around the head of Sherlock's cock and sliding down, down, down.

Silence falls in the room as John holds himself completely still, tasting the entire length of Sherlock along his tongue and only just brushing the back of his throat before he has to pull back, dragging his mouth back up and finally Sherlock gasps like he'd been holding a breath for an age and John just has to look at him, has to see the look on his boyfriend's face.

Sherlock is, as simply put as humanly possible, a gorgeous mess.

Dampening curls have fallen into his eyes as he stares down at John on the floor, cheeks red as cherries, mouth pink and parted and perfect, panting like he's just run a marathon, Sherlock Holmes looks deliciously debauched and positively shocked at what is happening to him right now, blush running all the way down his sternum to kiss his naval, darkening with every breath. His chest heaves with the effort to breathe, fingers clenching and unclenching in John's hair, thighs flexing where John's hands grip hard muscles for leverage and for teasing purposes.

But Christ those eyes, crystal blue and shining bright and all-consuming, John is lost in that stunning gaze staring back at him like he's some sort of wonder, like he's done something so unexpected and so wonderful, like he's something to be treasured and kept. It's a jolt to his system, a lightning bolt through the heart the way Sherlock Holmes is looking at John Watson, so much more than lust though of course that shines brightest but encircling it is something else entirely, something powerful and precious, something tempering the heat in his eyes, stoking the fire and making it last, not just for tonight but forever more, burning lasting embers between them that glow boldly with silent promises and answers to unasked questions.

John has never been in love before. He's never thought about being in love, what it would look like, what it would feel like.

Now, kneeling before this incredible genius of a boy stripped bare and beautiful before him cradling his skull and caressing his skin, John knows in an absolute sort of way that this right here this is what being in love looks like. This is what being in love _feels_ like. This is it. Right here.

Sherlock Holmes holds love in his gaze and John hopes desperately that his own eyes tell the same story, his heart beating wildly as goose pimples raise along his skin like tiny reminders of the butterflies in his stomach flapping their delicate wings in time with his racing pulse, John Watson is so bloody in love with Sherlock Holmes it hurts in his chest, clenching around his heart and squeezing with everything he has, teetering dangerously close to the edge of becoming an absolute wreck right there on their dirty dorm room floor because it's one thing to want someone physically and a completely other thing to want someone wholly, body and soul and heart and brain, it's completely wonderful and truly terrifying.

So instead he gathers Sherlock's hands in his, presses his face to open palms and breathes, dropping kisses to his lover's skin tenderly as he reigns his emotion back in, attempting and failing to stop feeling ridiculous getting so emotional during a goddamn blowjob for Christ sake, his heart shaking in his chest with everything he feels so keenly down to the tips of his toes, the realization that good god is he in love with this boy and how clear it is that he'll do absolutely anything for him.

He's in so fucking deep here and that knowledge alone is, simply put, overwhelming.

Long fingers curve around his wrists as knowledgeable thumbs stroke along the bones and tendons delicately before tugging carefully, pulling John to his feet and into Sherlock's chest as long arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him close and John's stomach rolls pleasantly as his lover reads him like a book and responds in kind, mellowing their touches from urgent and dirty to quiet and soft, Sherlock's lips falling to John's neck in the sweetest of kisses, trailing up and down his skin like brandings John wants to have forever. It's the tenderness that makes John's heart ache, the carefulness in the way Sherlock touches him, sliding hands down his bare back and up into his hair, cradling him close while he lets John catch his breath at the notch beneath his throat.

Christ, this is scary, every emotion John experienced this evening is scary, and John has not been prepared for it to hit him quite like this, right after an adrenaline-fueled, hormone-driven evening, the last thing John Watson had been prepared for was a goddamn breakdown while knelt before his lover's naked body, but those seem to be the cards he's been dealt this evening and the only other thing he can manage to do is inhale and exhale, heaving against Sherlock's neck like he's been underwater too long, the hands sliding along his skin the only things grounding him back to this moment, the knowledge that Sherlock is here, Sherlock is his is enough to keep him from tipping right over the edge into sheer panic because this feeling in his throat right now feels bigger than his entire body and he's not sure how to process it properly. So he clings and lets himself be held and soothed and cared for, the war raging on in his emotions.

And then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it's gone. Well, not gone per se but fading into the background, no longer all-consuming but simmering quietly beneath everything else, gently pushing reminders out every few heartbeats, pulsating through his system in rhythm; love him, love him, love him.

Which is exactly when the ball of heat sitting just inside John's ribcage decides to explode because a short meltdown cannot contain an eighteen-year-old's libido, not when said libido is fully aware of how silky and smooth pale skin feels on hands, how soft curls feel twisted between fingers, how very delicious pouty lips taste with kisses, and considering the owner of all of these characteristics is standing naked and hard and beautiful before his very eyes, well. John Watson never stood a damn chance.

Fire rages on fiercely beneath his skin, filling his chest to the brim and racing along every nerve ending he has, and John hasn't forgotten exactly what it feels like to want so urgently but he'd certainly been otherwise occupied and when he sees it, sees his lover read his body language, sees the inferno blazing in blue eyes, Sherlock's own dilate in return and from there, it's all over.

John's fingers have never been clumsier as he wriggles out of his pants, tugging forcefully at his shoes and socks, panting with anticipation before straightening again and staring down the boy against the door straight in the eye, Sherlock pinned to the wood like he's afraid to move watching John's every move with wild bright eyes.

God, those eyes. The things they do to John Watson.

"On the bed," John hears himself growl low in his throat, smirking with a confidence he has no business having as Sherlock swallows audibly, John's eyes following the movement down his throat to the sharp dip between his collarbones.

He chases his lover onto the mattress, Sherlock scrambling on hands and knees across the blankets, following John's instructions perfectly and the rugby player can't help grabbing at pale skin, wrapping hands around hips as he climbs in behind Sherlock, legs folded beneath him. His touch seems to send a jolt through the genius boy and Sherlock moans outright, muscles falling slack as he leans back against John's chest, his back slick with sweat, his body trembling.

"John," he whimpers into the darkness, curly head dropping back on John's shoulder, Cupid's bow parted on a wobbly sigh. He looks so gloriously sensual in this position, lean torso stretched long, chest heaving to the ceiling as he pants and John wants to fucking _devour_ him.

"Fucking perfect," John whispers in Sherlock's ear as he runs his palms down the genius boy's thighs, stroking along goose pimpled skin and reveling in the answering groan he receives. "You are so goddamn beautiful."

Long fingers wrap into his blond fringe as Sherlock raises his arms up and reaches behind, arching his back into a sharp c and writhes spectacularly and John lurches forward to meet the movement, dropping his mouth to Sherlock's shoulder, eyes locked on the genius boy's cock jutting out proudly from his pelvis.

"Look at you, baby," John breathes against his neck and Sherlock responds with an unintentional roll, pushing the breath from John's chest as his cock is suddenly nestled warmly in the crease Sherlock's arsecheeks like it belongs there. "Oh my god."

They could fuck like this one day. John could work Sherlock open on his hands and knees and drive into him with dirty thrust after dirty thrust and he knows, Christ he can tell from the arch in that beautiful backside that Sherlock would fucking _love_ it. Not tonight of course but one day... _God_ , one day.

"John," Sherlock cries softly, holding on tightly to John's hair like a lifeline, hips tipping up at their own accord in a silent plea.

"Yeah," John agrees, hands roaming all over flat abdominals and firm pectorals and stunning lines leading the way to one aching cock now leaking down onto the blankets, fingers following the divots up and back, Sherlock's moan rumbling in John's chest. "I've got you love, fuck, look at you, I've got you."

His thumb flicks over a hard nipple and Sherlock keens, arse dipping up and back as he gives little thrusts of his hips, pushing and pulling against John's dick and driving him absolutely insane. "Please, John _please_."

"Jesus," John growls, pressing his tongue into Sherlock's ear and wrapping a hand around his lover's erection, pinching at the other nipple as he gives a firm stroke. "Fuck my fist, Sherlock."

"Ohhh god," Sherlock cries, shoving his hips into John's hand like he can't get enough, tossing his head back again on a silent scream, tightening his grip in John's hair. "Holy fuck."

Sweat trickles down Sherlock's chest, mingling in John's hand and slickening his grasp as he jerks his boyfriend off, and John is only just realizing they clearly will need lube if they continue to have the amount of sex they've been having when the soft supple curves of Sherlock's arse against his cock suddenly tighten and John's vision goes blurry. "Fuck!" he cries, pressing his forehead between Sherlock's shoulder blades, watching his erection slip in between the sweetest arse he's ever seen, cheeks tightening clearly on purpose and letting go just as quickly, hugging him in time with this rhythm of his fist. "Oh my good god."

"John," is Sherlock's wrecked reply, his body doing just as much work as John thrusts up against him. "Can... oh fuck- can you come? Like this?"

"Jesus, yes," John whispers, cock throbbing, pleasure rippling all along his frame, the warmth of the body against his doing nothing but spurring him on and on, Sherlock's filthy words ratcheting his arousal up several ticks.

Sherlock moans at that, loud and long and goddamn sexy as hell, dropping that gorgeous arse back again, muscles tightening, clutching John's cock between soft skin.

John's eyes roll back in his head. "Fuck, Sherlock."

"Yeah, _yes_ John." Oh Christ this boy, he's into it now, wanton and willing and wriggling, responding to every pump of John's hand with a backside grind, sliding up and down John's dick like the genius that he is, somehow finding exactly how to please John without even looking back, lost in his own pleasure as John strokes him wetly.

"Christ, your arse," John murmurs in his lover's ear. "Fucking hell, you are perfect." He drops a hand down to that plush backside and gets a grip full of soft skin. "God yes, ride my cock."

And that is what gloriously does it, Sherlock keening rather loudly, hips spasming once, twice, shaking in John's arms. "Oh fuck-"

The genius boy _shudders_ harshly, spilling into John's fist again and again before falling boneless back against him and John releases his grip on Sherlock's spend cock, instead clutching at Sherlock's torso, burying his face in that long damp neck and riding his hips along that gorgeous arse.

"Come on," Sherlock slurs, long fingers curving around John's forearms and hanging on, turning his head to nuzzle into John's blond fringe, continuously murmuring a string of words John only hears parts of. "...want you... to come... John... for me... come..."

Sweat sluices between them as John thrusts harder and faster, his chest vibrating with Sherlock's rumbling words, his cock wet and hard and aching against deliciously plump arsecheeks, the warmth between them making his head dizzy, narrowing his senses down to only this, only the point where skin meets skin, only Sherlock. His mouth falls open to taste the salted dampness against that long glorious neck, tongue laving lazily along hard tendons as pleasures builds rapidly, spiraling faster, coiling tighter and tighter.

"John," Sherlock practically sobs, rolling his body in time with John's thrusts, sounding completely wrecked. "Do it, John. Please. _Please_."

"Christ," John snaps out from between clenched teeth, hands falling to either one of Sherlock's arsecheeks, gripping them in his palms, fingers digging into pale skin and then- " _Yes_ -"

"Oh my god," Sherlock moans to the ceiling and John comes in long white streaks all over Sherlock's lower back, hips pumping forward over and over, riding it out, shivering out the last of his orgasm, vision blurring completely as his orgasm crashes over him.

And later, he'll curl around Sherlock in their bed, drop soft kisses to his forehead and stroke his naked back. He'll murmur apologies about his jealous behavior and whisper tenderly about how he'll do better and Sherlock will scoff and tell him he has nothing to apologize for. He'll stay awake far longer into the evening as Sherlock drifts off to sleep, watching his lover rest peacefully beside him.

But for John clutches Sherlock to him, nude skin to nude skin, and repeats the same thing over and over silently in his head words he's not quite ready to say out loud but are nonetheless the only three words he can possibly think right in this moment, praying they find their way into Sherlock's mind and that he knows, and John thinks them harder just in case, exhaling shakily on every finished thought.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING DARLINGS!! I know this one was a long wait but I appreciate those of you who stuck it out with me! XOXOX!
> 
> We're having a constant lovefest on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! Come join in! XO!


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